


Acts Infernal

by copperbadge



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Afterlife, Gen, Mythology - Freeform, mentions of institutionalisation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-09-19
Updated: 2003-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 06:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/pseuds/copperbadge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old man in Diagon Alley has a story to tell, if the price is right: about the gates of Hades, a silver boy and a sable boy, a cast-off angel, and a knife that can sever your soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I owe many literary debts, in this fanfic, primarily to Dante. I have drawn liberally from the pre-Christian mythologies of Greece, Egypt, Britain, and Rome, and extensively from mediaeval Christianity. 
> 
> Acts Infernal is the brainchild of a few images -- Harry hitching his way through England, a map-keeper's shop, a road to Hades, a bat-winged angel with a knife, a redemption for a dead man. It grew into something larger and stranger than I could have imagined. 
> 
> I also owe thanks to the LJ and YM folks who suffered through the writing of this, offering comments and critiques. And of course those who beta'd -- Tai, Jill, Allison, and Judy.

_The old man turned and spoke to me_  
 _His face at last in view_  
 _And then I thought those curious eyes_  
 _Were eyes that once I knew._  
Vachel Lindsay

\-- Come, says the old man. Come and hear the story.

The day is bright, late in summer, a good day to sit and let old bones rest in the sun; the children who run along the bricked streets of Diagon Alley are tired in the afternoon. It is good to sit on the warm red walk and listen to the old man; he was a fine Scop in his day, say the children's parents to each other, and his stories do no harm.

\-- Come and hear, says the old man.

\-- Hear about what? asks a small child. Other youths crowd around, and some older children lean on walls or in doorways, pretending that they just happened to be there.

\-- Hear a story about Harry Potter, the old man answers, and the childrens' eyes grow round. These are children raised on tales of Arthur and Beowulf, fed a love of Chaucer and Shakespeare with their mothers' milk, but Harry Potter is one of them, Harry Potter was a boy-warrior and he belongs to the children.

The old man spreads his hands, arms wide, invoking the gods of the Scops silently.

\-- This is a story about the afterlife, and the gods of the afterlife, he says. This is a story of what happens when people die, and when they choose to live. It starts with two paths. For there were once two sure ways into the afterlife without death, two ways where the soul was not taken from the body and the body grown cold.

He looks at the children, and is sad that none of them are yet innocent enough to ask what death is.

\-- There was an arch through which one could walk and not return; it was made by men, and an abhorrence to nature. And then there was a gateway, a footpath that led down through the earth and into a place which was not-earth, that some people call limbo. The souls of ghosts live there, awaiting the rest of themselves before they may continue. It was guarded by men but not made by men; it was most natural. And it was this path which was sought by the boy warrior...

***

The boy standing at the side of the road could have been a tourist, a hitch-hiker, a stranded motorist; with a book-bag slung over his shoulder, water bottle strapped to it and food-bag slung crosswise over the other, he was not all that out of the ordinary for summer in England. There were a lot of kids who backpacked through the country in the summertime.

Except this boy carried a slim, beautifully hand-turned bit of wood in his back pocket, nothing more than a narrow stick with a handle. A casual observer would take it for a child's caprice, the keeping of a special stick. Any wizard, of course, would instantly know what he was, and considering the scar on his forehead, it would not be long before they knew who he was, too.

He had his thumb out for every car that passed on the dusty country road; no-one had stopped yet, but he wore the sort of look that said if he had to walk the whole way, he would do it without complaint.

Fortunately, the driver of the truck which slowed and stopped near the dust-coated boy didn't need to see the wand or the scar; he knew him on sight, and leaned out the window with a grin.

"Harry?" the driver asked, a sunny smile on his face. Harry Potter, heart swelling with relief, gave him a returning smile, though not quite as cheerful.

"Hallo, Colin," Harry said, taking the hand Colin Creevy extended in greeting. He threw the larger bag in the truck, alongside a couple of tarps and some rope, and climbed into the passenger's seat, buckling the safety belt as Colin pulled back onto the road.

"Bit young to be driving, aren't you?" Harry asked, gazing out the grimy windshield. Colin chuckled.

"When you grow up driving tractors, they're a bit lenient about when you start driving trucks. Nobody much drives these roads except farmers, anyhow, and all of 'em know Da. Here, you're the last person I expected to see on the road today. I thought you went home for the summer. You know, your Muggle home."

"I did," Harry replied, studying the buckles on his book bag.

"What happened?" Colin asked.

"I left."

"Oh." Colin bit his lip, nervously. "Going to see the country?"

"Something like that," Harry agreed. "I have business with a witch in York."

Colin drove effortlessly through the rolling green hills of the countryside, and Harry watched him, noticing how much more confident the boy seemed in the Muggle world. He didn't know many wizards who could drive a car at all, let alone as well as Colin was. The boy had learned tact, in the past year or so, and also a great deal of circumspection, for which Harry was grateful.

"I'm passing through York tomorrow," Colin said. "Stay on with us at home tonight and I could take you that far."

"I'd appreciate that. Haven't got anywhere to stay in town," Harry said. "I can pay for food and such -- "

Colin waved him off. "No need, not for you, Harry, you know that. If you were headed to York, why didn't you take the Knight Bus?"

"I wanted to enjoy the journey."

"And have you?" Colin asked curiously.

"So far."

***

The Creevy house, nestled on a smart little piece of farmland, had the requisite chickens in the front yard and goats in the back. Colin and Dennis' father was a nice enough man, a bit on the gruff side. It was easy to see that he was proud of his sons, though Harry thought he was also just slightly wary of their keen intelligence.

"Don't forget to take the ropes and tarpaulin when ye go, Colin," he said, as they made plans for the trip to York over dinner, shepherd's pie and sweet hot rolls.

"No, Da, I won't," Colin said, offering Harry the water jug.

"And what business have ye in York, Harry?" Mr. Creevy inquired, while Harry poured himself some water and passed the jug to Dennis, who, at home, was rather less inclined to talk than at school.

"I'm going to see someone about a bit more travel. She has a map I need," Harry explained.

"Anastasia Elowen, maybe?" Colin asked. Harry glanced at him, surprised.

"Y...es," he said, slowly. "How did you know?"

Colin and Dennis exchanged a grin. Their father looked vaguely confused, but also as though he'd felt this way rather too often for it to bother him anymore.

"Miss Anastasia's a great one for maps," Dennis said, into his food.

"So I've heard," Harry replied. "Dean told me about her a couple of months ago. Said he was going to get a talking map of Europe for when he did some traveling this summer."

"She doesn't take money for them, though," Colin continued. "You've got to have a map to trade to her, or a bit of magic or somesuch."

Harry thought of the book bag, upstairs on a cot next to Colin's bed. These days, he often thought it was ironic that the things he carried could, in the hands of a Death Eater, be considered formidable weapons -- aside from a few items of clothing, he carried a two-person mirror (the new counterpart now belonging to Remus Lupin, who checked on him regularly), an invisibility cloak, a few slim volumes on the mythology of death, and the trade he intended to give Anastasia.

"I've brought her something," he said reservedly.

They ate in silence for most of the meal, Colin's father occasionally giving him some advice on the trip, or adding in places of interest Harry ought to see in the city if he had time. Harry promised dutifully that he would visit the museum under York Minster, if opportunity presented itself. Dennis argued that he ought to go to York too, to help his brother, but received in return only the promise that "next year -- if ye're ready, ye can go along. Isn't room for ye two great lummoxes and Harry to boot."

Harry was grateful to escape to Colin's small room, and spend the evening reading, taking copious notes and triangulating ley lines on a county map. Colin looked on interestedly, but didn't ask what he was doing, or why.

Still mad for photos though, Harry thought, as he curled himself up for sleep. Thousands of them, pasted all over the walls and doors, moved dreamily in the darkening room, like ghosts Harry only vaguely knew.

***

It was never the same here in dreams as it had been in reality; it was seen with the fallible clarity that time brings to memory, which sharpens some edges not meant to be sharpened, and sometimes removes things entirely from view.

He could see every shadow on Bellatrix's face, every individual lock of Sirius' hair. He was here in this time now, but he knew what was coming, knew that Sirius would taunt her, the madwoman, the murderer, and there was a true bolt.

Harry knew that this was probably not truth, that it was his memory embroidering on things, but he was nearly sure that Sirius was still smiling, still caught in a laugh, as he fell through the archway, as the veil wrapped around him like a shroud for a moment before releasing him to the other side. He felt Remus Lupin's arm wrap around his chest at the same moment Bellatrix laughed, and sometimes he felt as though it was that laughter, and not the werewolf's arms, which kept him from reaching his godfather.

It was not a nightmare in the sense that it made his heart beat faster or, once he was awake, overwhelmed him with fear; it was really just a startling dream, though he always jerked awake from it.

Colin was sleeping. So were most of his photographs. Harry put his hands over his face -- cold in the slightly stuffy room -- and breathed in the smell of his own skin.

"No more dreams," he whispered. It was mostly a plea, but also a sort of mantra; if he believed it, one day it might actually happen. "No more dreams. No more dreams..."

***

Miss Anastasia's Maps, tucked down a side-alley in the Shambles of York, catered to Muggle and Wizard alike. Harry had heard she sold rare hand-drawn maps, as well as modern printed atlases and the occasional bit of magic. He wasn't quite sure which of the three the map he took from her would be, but he knew she would have it, if anyone would.

When he walked through the door, bells tinkled on the doorknob; it opened into a long, narrow room lit only by sunlight through the windows.

Every square inch of wall was covered in shelves, or framed maps, or file cabinets. There were tables as well, on which were spread thousands of sheets of paper, some new and white, some yellowing, covered in crabbed mapmaker's script. Circular bins held giant rolls of paper; books were everywhere, even piled haphazardly on the floor. Harry wondered if there was any filing system for them at all; the complete randomness suggested that there was, but that it was of a subtlety only its creator could grasp.

Miss Anastasia was seated at the far end, bent over a desk. She had not looked up yet, and Harry studied her, now that he had gotten his first impression of the rest of the room. She had pretty, curling hair, just beginning to go grey, and angular shoulders that suggested she had spent a good deal of time bent over a drafting table.

"Welcome to my shop, Harry," she said, without moving. Harry blinked. She hadn't seen him yet, he was sure of that, and nobody could have told her he was coming -- he hadn't told anyone but the Creevys he was going to visit her first.

"You know who I am," he stammered, walking forward, fingers drifting over the maps, not quite touching. She nodded, head still bowed.

"Of course," she murmured.

"Did Colin tell you? By floo?"

"Nonsense," Anastasia said. "Floo powder's being rationed, haven't you heard? No, living with Muggles, I don't suppose you would have."

He could see her face now, half-obscured by her rich brown hair, eyes moving along a line of text on a map. Her lips quirked in a small smile. "There's a war on, you know."

Harry nodded. "That, I knew," he said, for want of anything better to say. It didn't seem right to just come out and ask for the map; he would play the politeness game for a while. He had time.

"All over the world, wizards are in hardship. Beginning to waken to the facts. Aurors come and go as they please without so much as a by-your-leave; no unnecessary floo or broomstick flight, with rationing to enforce it," she continued. "It was better last time. It was better when at least we had our freedom, even if we were scared."

"They've cancelled the Quidditch World Cup," Harry put in.

"Just as well. Nobody really cares whether Brazil beats Argentina, at any rate."

"Except two hundred million South Americans."

Anastasia's smile widened. "You hardly came here to talk Quidditch, Harry Potter."

"How did you know I was coming?" Harry insisted.

"Before you left your home, the maps rustled. When you ate at the Creevy table, they made their own music. Maps are deep magic, you know. Like coins," she added. "And love. They go beyond what is taught about them by human voice."

Harry stood there, helpless. Then she knew everything; why didn't she just tell him what he wanted to know?

"The map you are looking for is four paces to your right, on the second shelf," she said finally. Harry walked to the unvarnished wooden shelf, whitened by age. The maps on it were the colour the wood should have been originally, he thought. He took down the top map and gazed at it. It was pencil-drawn and inked over, but the smudges of graphite were still underneath. A plain map. No writing, no drawings. Just a series of lines detailing a complex, triangular maze with only one entrance, one exit.

"I hope it will help you," Anastasia said, drawing his attention back to the dusty, gold-lit room.

"Aren't you going to try to stop me?" Harry asked.

"Why would I try to stop you?" Miss Anastasia asked in reply. "You can tell me if the map's accurate or not."

"And if I don't come back?"

"Then the map was wrong, and good riddance," she sniffed. "Your life is your own, Harry Potter, and I don't begrudge you a quest, however foolhardy. In the meantime, there's the matter of payment."

Harry had expected this. He reached into his book bag and withdrew a scrap of parchment for her to see, placing it on the table where she was working, and from which she had yet to look up.

"I solemnly swear I am up to no good," he said, touching the blank sheet. Words slowly swirled out of the parchment.

MESSRS. MOONY, WORMTAIL, PADFOOT, AND PRONGS PRESENT THEIR RESPECTS TO MISS ANASTASIA ELOWEN.

Below the message, the outlines of Hogwarts School began to fade slowly into being.

"I thought perhaps...you could see how it was done. Or hang it up as a museum piece," Harry said, stumbling a little over the words. "It's all I've got."

"Your father was a friend of mine," Anastasia said gently. "He showed me that map when we were in school."

Harry nodded, accepting that she knew more about the art of the thing on the table than he probably did. He took his hand off the parchment.

"Then take it as a piece of history," he said, slightly bitterly.

"I will take it as collateral against a loan," Miss Anastasia answered, considering it.

Harry winced. "I'm willing to give it up," he managed.

"I know, poor boy," was her only reply. "But I am not that hard a bargain-maker. If you are willing, that is enough."

"You don't think I'm coming back, do you?" Harry asked. She smiled.

"Oh, I think you'll come back. But I think you'll be empty-handed for it."

She lifted her face and the golden light caught it. There was a long, broad scar across one cheek, and below it another one, shaped like a teardrop -- as if the first had wept.

"I came back, after all," she whispered.

Harry stared.

"I drew that one with my own hands, learning from my own mistakes. Now take the map, Harry Potter, and go with my blessing. And if you see Jennor Griff, tell him..." she stumbled, her fingers drifting up to touch the Marauder's Map, softly. "Say that I tried, but my compass was not true."

Harry looked at the labyrinth map in his hands, suspiciously. She smiled, a bitter smile.

"That is the only map now existent. It was drawn by me. After I returned," she added. "If that map is not true, there is no true map. Now all you have to do, Harry," she continued, "is find the entrance to Hades. And not the one you're thinking of -- the true and natural one. Don't pass through the veil."

"I knew there was another entrance," Harry said. "Where is it?"

Anastasia opened a book and laid it on the table. A map of the world.

"Good luck," she said with a smile. "I hear you've been studying ley lines."

"I have."

"Good," she answered, and closed the book. Harry understood that their talk was over; she had no more to tell him. He left her to her maps, walking back out into the sunny, tourist-busy streets of York with the precious labyrinth map, the last key to the puzzle.

He would need to catch a train.

***

 _Men talk of peace, but I have seen_  
 _The emery-wheel turn round._  
 _The voice of Abel cries again_  
 _To God from out the ground._  
Vachel Lindsay

Those local to the Berkshire Downs have their own myths about its magic and the sources of the White Horse. Unrestrained by academic sociologists or archaeological thinking, they maintain that the white figure in chalk on the hillside of Uffington Castle (no longer a castle in anything but name -- only fragments of wood and stone remain) is a portrait of the dragon which was slain by St. George on nearby Dragon Hill. There, another irregular chalk pit supposedly represents the places the dragon's blood fell.

Perhaps the mythology becomes the fact, though English Heritage archaeologists say that the horse is old enough to belong to a cult of Epona, a horse goddess worshipped by a tribe called the Belgae, who spread throughout Britain in the Bronze Age. And the horse is now preserved by English Heritage, who own the land and the rights to it, and so what they say is law.

You can see Dragon Hill from the eye of the White Horse, where you may stand and make a wish. The blood of the dragon, spilled on the hilltop, left it barren in those chalk-white spots -- at least, according to legend, assisted by a ritual scouring of the grass from the chalk every seven years.

Some believe the area, and the former castle in particular, represent the site of the battle of Badon, the final victory of Arthur over the Saxons.

To reach the eye of the Horse, one walks along the Ridgeway, an ancient road which runs for thirty-three kilometres, from Uffington Castle to the modern city of Goring. If one were to walk the opposite direction, away from the horse, one would soon come to a pleasant, forested area which contains fields of poppies, trees, and Wayland's Smithy.

Harry sat, arms curled around legs, just above the eye of the horse, looking downward towards Dragon Hill. The magic was so strong here that a wizard, listening for it, could almost hear it hum, even over the roar of the highway in the distance and the sounds of tourists coming and going. He had eaten the last of the sandwiches happily provided for him by the Creevys, and was thinking on what to do next. Neither the Hill, nor the Horse, nor the Castle were what he had searched for.

If he'd caught the train and then a bus and then hitch-hiked all the way out here for nothing, he was going to be extremely put out.

Behind him, there was a loud crack, but he didn't flinch; he had been expecting something like this, and was only glad that there were no Muggles around to be startled.

"I knew you wouldn't try to stop me until you thought I had a chance of succeeding," he said, a trifle angrily. A hand touched his shoulder, and he smelled faint traces of eucalyptus and peppermint.

"It's dangerous for you to be abroad, Harry," said Remus Lupin gently.

"So I'm told," Harry answered. Remus crouched just behind him, bright keen eyes sweeping across the breathtaking view from the Horse's head.

"And you didn't answer when I tried to use the mirrors."

"I couldn't hear you. It's in the bottom of my pack."

"Dangerous for you to be abroad," said another voice. "And even more dangerous for you to do what you're considering."

Harry nodded. Dumbledore too; he could not be truly angry at Lupin, but he had no such qualms about his Headmaster. Not after all that Dumbledore had put him through, however well-intentioned he'd been.

"I really must be close now," he said. "Is it Wayland's Smithy?"

He turned his head to look up at Dumbledore, simply as a child. Remus turned too, his face a question mark.

"Consider, Harry," Dumbledore said, ignoring the question. "If you don't come back -- "

"Then I'm with my family again," Harry answered. "Would that be so bad?"

"We're your family too, Harry," Remus murmured. Harry fought off a choking in his throat.

"Yes. I'd miss you," he admitted. "But it's like everyone keeps telling me." He turned back. The view really was quite spectacular. He could see why someone would want to build a castle here. "We won't be apart forever," he said, with a sardonic smile. Remus bent his head slightly, acknowledging defeat. "Who told you, anyhow? I only told Ron where I was going, and him not everything."

"I did."

Harry looked up and to his right, past Remus, to where a figure was approaching from the hill, dusting dirt and grass-stains off his trousers, lit cigarette between his lips.

"You're an eavesdropper and a spy, Malfoy," Harry muttered. Draco Malfoy grinned. "I suppose you read my Owls?"

"No. Friends in high places," Draco replied, eyes sliding from Dumbledore to Harry and back. "Personally, I'd like you to succeed," he said. "I only told them because I like to see you suffer, too."

He dropped to the grass next to Harry, as Remus stood up and put his head in his hands, ruefully.

"Why do you care whether I do it or not?" Harry asked, glancing at Draco. The blond boy flicked his cigarette onto the Horse's eye, where it smoldered and died.

"Well, I don't, really. But I'm coming with you, see."

"The hell you are."

"How apt," Draco replied, grinning. "I've been given a job to do. It lies along the same road as yours. So I'm coming with you. If you don't let me, I'll just follow you anyhow."

"Given a job?" Harry asked.

"Oh yes. I have to fetch something for a...family friend."

Draco let his left arm hang down, and Harry could see, under the rolled-up sleeve, a few inches of tattoo. Part of a Dark Mark.

"I should kill you," Harry said.

Draco looked insufferably smug. "This is Sacred Ground," he replied. "You know the rules, by now. Wizards can't fight here. Not with magic. It's too dangerous."

"I could do it with my bare hands."

"No you couldn't."

Harry stretched his legs out, and began to rise. "No," he said. "You're right. I don't have it in me to kill an animal."

"We should be going," was Draco's only reply, as he stood, too. Dumbledore stretched out a hand, stopping Harry.

"I am asking as your Headmaster. As your teacher and your friend, Harry," he said, pleading in his eyes.

"Perhaps if you'd been those things when I needed them, I wouldn't be doing this now," Harry replied bitterly. Remus swallowed nervously, adam's apple bobbing. Harry turned and gathered his pack, slowly walking away. Draco followed, not quite at his side.

"I said it was pointless," Remus said quietly, watching them leave. "I told you it would only make him angry. You made me come anyway."

Silence.

"He's gone to fetch his parents, you know, and I'm sure Draco's gone to get some Death Eater or other. And if we can't even stop Harry there's no way we'll stop Draco..."

Nothing.

"Dumbledore, for god's sake, say somethi -- "

There was a crack, and when he turned, he was alone.

"Enigmatic bastard," he muttered.

***

The unfortunate truth about places with high magical charges, such as the White Horse and the Smithy, is that people are drawn to them. It is the reason that Wizarding schools are Muggle-protected so extensively, the reason that Diagon Alley is in the middle of a busy downtown shopping district.

When Harry and Draco emerged from the high weeds blocking either side of the Ridgeway, into the little fenced-in clearing where the Smithy lay, it was crowded already. This was summer, tourist season, and people were on holiday. There was a small gang of solemn-faced children and what must be either mother or teacher; a couple of hippies in bare feet and peasant shirts, unconcernedly worshipping whatever it was they worshipped; Americans in trainers, snapping pictures. All Muggle; some obviously unsure why they were there.

Wayland's Smithy was a long, low barrow, surrounded by upright stones, with an entrance at one end far too short for most people to enter, and mostly blocked off by rock anyhow. It was long-since overgrown with green grass, and made a sort of oblong hillock on the otherwise flat clearing.

They stood there for a while, watching the comings and goings, two gangling teenage boys leaning on the low wooden fence. Finally, Draco snorted and pulled out the pack of cigarettes. He took the last one out of the paper carton, tapped it, touched it to his lips, and murmured a few words in Latin. The end flared to life.

"I am going to kill you, sooner or later," Harry said softly. "We're on opposite sides, now."

"Reckon one of us'll kill the other," Draco answered. "That always happens in the stories. It's the heroic myth."

"At least we get the really interesting archetypes," Harry sighed.

"Here's a hint. If a woman in a lake gives you a sword, don't take it." Draco flicked ash off his cigarette as he watched one woman investigate the too-small entrance to what were, according to archaeologists, prehistoric burial chambers.

"How do you suppose we clear them off?" Harry asked.

"Could kill 'em," Draco said.

"I really don't think that's a very good answer."

"Have it your way." Draco stepped forward and climbed the barrow, holding up his hands for attention.

"EXCUSE ME, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" he called. All heads, even those of the hippies (who had begun to dance), turned to him. "The parks service is closing the car park. Your autos are all about to be towed," Draco said.

It was amazing, really, how fast everyone left. Within five minutes, they had the place to themselves.

"I didn't think you knew what a car was," Harry observed, as Draco dropped off the barrow and stubbed out his cigarette on one of the stones.

"Yes, I'm full of surprises," the blond boy answered. They both turned to face the entrance. "What do we do now?"

"I go in. You follow me like a coward and a thief," Harry replied grimly, pulling his wand out of his back pocket.

"I can live with that," Draco answered amiably. " Are we going to do it...today?" he asked, when Harry hesitated.

"Shut up, Malfoy."

"Bite me, Potter."

"You're not bright enough to figure all this out on your own," Harry said, examining his wand. "Your family got you this job, didn't they? Fuck, even in the ranks of evil, you have to rely on nepotism."

Draco took out the empty cigarette box, examining it. "I volunteered," he said, finally.

"Why?"

"Because I knew it would piss you off," he replied, tossing the paper box away. Harry bent to pick it up, shoving it in his own pocket. "Because you're the Boy Who Lived, and I think the king of the underworld is probably pretty angry at you. He got cheated, after all."

"And you really think he's going to take you seriously with a name like Death Eater?" Harry asked. "That's a bit ostentatious of you, you know."

"So are we going or not?" Draco asked, a trifle impatiently.

"Shut up and try to pretend you're reverent," Harry answered. He planted his feet firmly on the ground, and stretched out one arm, the other holding the wand slightly above his head.

"What are you doing, you big pansy?" Draco asked, sneering.

"Shut up," Harry snapped. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Misty tendrils began to twine out from his wand.

_Nunc suscipe, terra, fovendum,_  
 _Gremioque hunc concipe molli._  
 _Hominis tibi membra sequestro,_  
 _Generosa et fragmina credo._

_Veniant modo tempora justa_  
 _Cumspem Deus impleat omnem,_  
 _Reddas patefacta, necesse est,_  
 _Qualem tibi trado figuram._

Draco watched with a sort of detached interest as the entrance began to grow, the earth slide back to reveal a slanting hole, down into which a dirt road stretched. It glowed a faint green, tinged with gold, even in the bright afternoon. Harry moved to stand just behind him, staring at it.

"After you," he managed, finally.

"Be my guest," Draco said, waving him forward.

"I'm not putting my back to you, thanks," Harry replied. Draco shrugged, and ducked inside the cave, his boots crunching on the moist gravel of the road.

"HARRY!"

Harry and Draco both turned at the shout, in time to see Remus Lupin, standing by the fence, one hand on the post.

"Harry, wait," he said, coming forward. He stopped, near Harry, eyes sweeping him from head to toe, face lined and tired. Harry flinched as Remus touched his shoulder, then gripped it.

"Superata tellus sidera donat," he said, quietly, eyes staring into Harry's.

"What does it mean?" Harry asked, confused.

"It's a charm," Remus replied, with a small smile. "It's probably useless, but...come back, Harry. Even if you come back empty handed. Don't get lost down there."

"I won't," Harry said. "You could come too."

"I doubt it. My blood. Best not to mix magics, when they run this deep," Remus replied, and Harry nodded. He turned, Remus' hand falling from his shoulder, and followed Draco into the passage.

"How rustic," Draco said, when they'd gone thirty or forty feet into the barrow. Harry rather thought he was covering for the stricken silence that had followed them down.

"What, now you want to criticise the underworld's interior design?" Harry asked, though Draco did have a point. The long earthen corridor was rough-hewn, loose chunks of soil hanging off the walls, and unpleasantly wet. Every ten or twenty feet, there was a bright pool of yellow light where heavy-looking wrought-iron lanterns hung from sticks rammed into the walls.

"I expected something more...medieval," Draco replied.

"How do you get more medieval than a cave?"

Draco shrugged. "You know. Wrought-iron gates reading Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here. Or maybe Arbeit Macht Frei."

Harry remembered that reference; Arbeit Macht Frei was the slogan over one of the Nazi death camps. "Who knew you were such a student of Muggle history," he observed sarcastically.

"One has to study Mudbloods in order to hate them properly," Draco answered. The cavern ahead loomed dark and ominous, and Harry reached up, taking one of the lanterns off of its makeshift hook.

"Did you really think Hades was going to be like that?" he asked. "All fire and brimstone?"

"I didn't know what it was going to be," Draco shrugged again. "I can only expect what I've learned might be true. Do you think there'll be hornets?"

Harry paused. "Hornets?" he asked, brows drawing together.

"Don't you know anything about Dante's Inferno?"

"I was busy studying Orpheus," Harry remarked, holding the lantern out above his head. They were coming to something, but he couldn't see it clearly, not yet. "We're going to Hades, Draco, not some bastardised Christian purgatory."

"Purgatory is the least of your worries, Potter," Draco drawled, as they came out into an echoingly huge space. Before them was an endless stretch of nothingness, a cliff that fell away in a sheer drop. When Harry leaned over, he couldn't see the bottom.

Into the wall of the cliff were cut rough steps, and along the edge -- where the drop was painfully steep -- an iron railing had been attached to the rock.

"I guess we go down," Harry said.

"Where do you get your brains, Potter?" Draco answered, testing the first step. When he found it solid, he continued, Harry following behind -- one hand carrying the lantern, the other on the railing.

"First," Draco said, as if the conversation had not been interrupted by a potentially terminal canyon, "There's the vestibule where people who never really lived spend their time getting chased by hornets."

"People who never lived?"

"People who never took action. People who just existed," Draco elaborated. "Then Limbo. That's for us. Virtuous Pagans," he said, with a smirk.

"You are twisted." Harry replied, joining him when the stairs broadened enough to accommodate two on one step.

"And then the Lustful, and the Gluttonous, and the Avaricious and Prodigal, and the Wrathful and Gloomy, and then the Heretics on fire in the City of Dis, the Violent in a river of boiling blood, the Suicides, the Fraudulent and Malicious, and the Betrayers." Draco ticked each one of them off on his fingers.

"What about the people who don't tip well?"

"Funny, Potter."

"How come you can rattle them off like that?" Harry asked, stopping to look at him. Draco gazed out over the empty expanse.

"I had the pop-up book," he said finally.

"This explains so much about you."

But Draco was still staring at the ever-descending staircase, and the darkness below.

"Bugger this for a game of soldiers," he said, and grabbed Harry by shoulders, pulling him forward. Harry had a terrifying moment when he thought Draco meant to push him over the edge, and then they were sliding, falling along the rail, faster and faster, far too fast for Harry's liking. He shouted in surprise as the stairway twisted and turned, and somehow Draco managed to keep them both on the railing until they ended, in a heap of limbs, at the bottom.

Harry dizzily tried to stand. Draco was lying near the lantern, which was about to go out. Draco reached out to straighten it, pushing himself up onto his elbows and laughing.

"I swear I am going to skin you alive and make a couch cover out of it," Harry said grimly, accepting the lantern from his hand. Draco stood, dusted off his trousers, and looked supremely unapologetic.

"I got us here, didn't I?" he asked. "Now we should be in..."

He trailed off as he turned, and Harry held up the lantern; in front of them were two large, dun coloured walls, easily thirty feet high. There was an entrance doorway, normal sized, between them, and beyond it they could see other walls behind the first two, going in all directions, though not quite as tall.

"I don't think this is the vestibule, Malfoy," Harry murmured.

"What is it?" Draco asked, eyes wide.

"It's the Labyrinth," Harry replied, digging in his pocket for the map. "Have you read that story?"

"Nobody ever said there was a Labyrinth in Hell," answered the other boy, still staring in shock at the enormous pylons on either side of the door.

"I keep telling you. We're not going to Hell," Harry sighed. "It's a symbolic thing. There are mazes in a lot of the ancient cultures. They're the roads to enlightenment. Down here, symbols are real. So if you see a cauldron, don't climb into it."

"Why?"

"You might get it pregnant." Harry grinned at Draco's shocked look. "And try not to think about anything that Freud would be interested in."

"Who's Freud?"

"Guess there are some gaps in your Muggle education," Harry said, studying the map. "Now, we go straight until we reach the centre of the maze."

"And then?" Draco asked, studying it from the other side. Harry looked up and met his bright grey eyes.

"And then I run away and lose you."

"I don't find that amusing," Draco said, but a smile quirked his lips.

They walked through the pylon entrance into the labyrinth, Harry moving carefully, noting offshoots and doorways that Draco barely looked at. He simply followed Harry closely, close enough that if Harry did try to run, he could hit him with a stunning spell. And if that failed, stretch out a long leg and trip him.

Considering all the risk Anastasia had gone to in order to draw the map, it was tediously dull finding their way to the end. There were no monsters, no riddles, nothing even to break the boring stone walls, which were too high to climb. Still, Harry -- who had spent most of the time muttering to himself about right and left turns -- breathed a sigh of relief when they circled one final wall, and found themselves in a long corridor with an open gate at the far end. Harry waved Draco ahead, but they both stopped at the gates. 

"What now, hero?" Draco asked.

"I don't think Dante's going to help us with this one," Harry said.

The gate opened onto a vast cavern, dirt-floored, walls arching up into the darkness. In front of them, his back to the smooth, curving rear wall of the cavern, sat an enormous man, easily ten feet tall. He was seated on a square stool, made of wood with peeling gilt, and wore only a white linen kilt, clasped with a circular golden buckle at his navel.

He was olive-skinned, solidly muscular and hairless, except --

Except for his head, which was not a human head at all, but grew out of his neck quite naturally all the same. Liquid black eyes looked down on them from a furry, elongated face -- the toothy snout of a jackal. His ears, tall and triangular, twitched slightly.

"What is it?" Draco asked, out of the corner of his mouth.

"Anubis," Harry breathed.

"Awhatbis?"

Harry glanced at Draco. "All that about the Inferno and you don't know who Anubis is?"

"A bloody ten-foot-tall wolf-headed freak!"

"Jackal-headed." Harry looked thoughtfully at the figure, which had not moved other than a few twitches of the ears and a slow, lazy blink of the eyes. "Anubis was the jackal-headed god of the Egyptians."

"What were they smoking?"

"You're one to talk. He sat in judgment in the underworld -- look, you can see the scales behind him."

Harry pointed, and Draco nodded. Even taller than Anubis, the great brass scales could easily hold a man in each broad cup; it wasn't tarnished, exactly, but somehow it seemed...dark. As though it was filmed over with something.

"He weighs the hearts of the dead against a feather. If they're lighter than the feather, they go to the afterlife."

Draco looked thoughtfully up at Anubis.

"What kind of an idiot religious philosophy is that?" he asked finally.

"Yes, I'm sure _Dante_ had the corner on truth," Harry said under his breath. He walked forward, footfalls echoing in the dark, empty cavern. Anubis' eyes followed him. Draco caught up to Harry just as the great jaws opened, and a surprisingly human-sounding voice emerged.

"Who passes this way?"

Draco snorted. "Who wants to know?"

There was flash, a crack, too sudden for Harry to even react; in a split second Draco had been picked up and flung across the cavern.

"You are still alive," Anubis said, turning to look at Harry again. Harry nodded. "And the silver one, also?"

"The silver one?"

Anubis lifted one finger, and pointed at Draco, who was shaking his head and pushing himself off the ground.

"Oh, him. Yeah," Harry said. Anubis nodded.

"Go home, little silver one," he said, to Draco. "You are not welcome. The living have no place at the heartweight scale."

"But there's nobody here," Harry pointed out.

Anubis snorted, small puffs of dust dancing across the ground as he did so. "You think, little sable one, because you cannot see them, they are not there?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. He'd come this far. He'd left Dumbledore and Lupin behind. He'd given up his father's map, and was willing to give up more, if he had to. He was not going to let some jackal-headed pissant stop him.

"We have to come through," he insisted. Anubis looked amused.

"Nonsense. Two living human boys in Hades? Ridiculous."

"What would you know about Hades? It's not even your pantheon," Harry answered, feeling as though perhaps he sounded a bit petulant.

"We of the lower way do not worry ourselves over petty religious laws, little sable one," Anubis replied. Harry balled his fists.

"How do I pass?" he demanded.

Anubis laughed. "Die," he said. "And weigh your heart on the scale. Then your soul is sent away to be reborn, or goes forth to Hades. There it is punished or rewarded as the master of Nir Dis sees fit."

"That seems rather arbitrary to me," Harry pointed out.

"Because you are alive, and not of the Lower Way," Anubis answered. "I am but a judge and have no sway in the affairs of the living. You are not passing through."

Harry opened his mouth to reply, and his eyes went wide.

As they spoke, Draco had pushed himself up, dusted himself off, and crept silently along the wall of the cavern, towards the scales. Without Harry or Anubis noticing, he had pulled himself up onto the scales, and was standing in one of the cups now, arms crossed.

"I'm going through," he announced.

Anubis turned, and it seemed to Harry that more than surprise or anger, he looked pityingly on the blond boy. The cup Draco stood in was obviously lower than the other.

"Oh, little silver one," he said softly, as Draco let out a piercing scream, and vanished. "I am sorry."

"What did you do to him?" Harry demanded, starting forward. Anubis held up a hand, stopping him.

"He was weighed as one dead," he said. "It is forbidden. Hades will be enraged."

"But he went through?" Harry snarled. "You said we couldn't go through -- "

"Are you ready to find yourself in torment, little sable one, should your heartweight be found wanting?"

Harry felt a flush of shame creep up his cheeks at the gentle words.

"So Draco might be..."

"In torment, yes."

Harry smiled slightly, and knew he was on the verge of insane laughter.

"Wish I'd brought my camera," he managed.

It was the wrong thing to say.

Anubis drew back, horrified, and stared at him. "The living are vicious beasts, it is said," he gasped. "And I find it true. Oh woe to you, little -- "

Then the earth began to shake, and small clumps of dirt rained down on Harry. Anubis looked about, arms outstretched to maintain his balance. Then he grunted, and began to fade into the shadows.

"Hades," he said, as his body became invisible in the darkness, "is coming."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The invocation Harry recites in this chapter comes from [Hymn For The Burial Of The Dead](http://www.poetrycat.com/aurelius-clemens-prudentius/hymn-for-the-burial-of-the-dead-hymnus-ad-exequias-defuncti) by Aurelius Clemens Prudentius. Remus Lupin's blessing on Harry is a quote by Boethius; roughly translated it means "Overcome the Earth and the stars are yours."


	2. Chapter 2

_Above them in the sky it bends_  
 _Empty and grey and dread._  
 _To-morrow night 'tis full again,_  
 _Golden, and foaming red._  
Vachel Lindsay

It was not yet sunset, and the tourists had once again begun to flock to Wayland's Smithy. Sun did not set until late, these days; it was summer, and Remus Lupin, for one, was grateful for the short nights that meant even a little less time spent as a wolf. He had too much to do to bother being patient with his own lycanthropy.

He sat on the low fence, working a chunk of loose, soft wood with a little knife he carried -- most wizards didn't carry weapons, a wand would do the trick, but his father had given him this knife when he was a child and he carried it everywhere. After all, a wand is a fickle thing, but a sharp knife is a sharp knife.

He wondered about the people coming to visit, about what drew them there -- or how anyone could be less than fascinated by this place, as some of the children seemed to be. Didn't they feel it? Perhaps Muggles didn't. He wondered about their stories. About whether Harry would have stories in this place. About whether he would see Harry and Draco again.

He had his own stories to consider, knowing what he knew about why Harry was bound for the underworld. Of course he didn't know everything, but what he didn't know he could guess at. After all, he had harrowed hell in his own way, hadn't he? Being a werewolf was nothing in comparison to his losses at Voldemort's hands. 

He always wondered if he could have stopped it, if he hadn't been living with Muggles. If he hadn't been living as a Muggle himself, running a listening post for gossip and rumour while holding down a cover job as a bartender in a pub in the north of England. It was so easy to live among Muggles.

***

He smelled like liquor and stale ice and sweat, but Remus Lupin was happy; he had a steady job that showed no signs of being affected by his unique disease, he had a flat to himself and the landlord lived just above him so there were never any problems with guttering or leaky roofs. He worked all evening, slept, woke in the morning and did his research for the Order. It was a simple, clean, a very good life for a young man of twenty.

As he walked up the front steps, well past midnight, he noticed a note on the door. _Remus, a friend of yours came to see you. Great bearded bloke. He said he'd wait, so I let him into your flat. Don't forget your rent._

Remus grinned and pocketed the note. Dumbledore, to see him? That was a nice surprise. He wondered if the older man had stayed, or had gotten tired of waiting and left. He'd been at the bar all day today, putting in extra morning hours to make up for his three days' "sick leave" last week, so he hadn't heard anything from anyone in a while.

"Dumbledore!" he called. "Hallo, are you still here?"

"In here," came a soft, sober voice from the little kitchenette. Remus pulled off his coat and tossed it on the sofa, moving into the kitchen and grinning. Dumbledore sat at the little table in what Remus rather optimistically called the Breakfast Nook (Breakfast Wall was more like it), head bowed, hands folded in his lap.

Something was very, very wrong.

"No," Remus breathed softly. Dumbledore looked up at him. "No, I know why you're here now," he whispered. "Who...?"

"Sit down, Remus," the older man said quietly. Remus, obedient to the last, sat in the other chair, and didn't take his eyes from his Headmaster's face.

"It's my father, isn't it?" he asked, feeling a chill creep into his bones. Dumbledore shook his head. "Then who?"

"Voldemort is vanquished," Dumbledore murmured. Remus started up, knocking over his chair.

"But that's great news!" he cried. "Are you sure? Who did it -- I bet it was Sirius, wasn't it? That ballsy bastard!" he laughed. "Tell me. It was Sirius and Moody, right? Am I right?"

He was halfway through pouring a celebratory mug of whiskey for himself, to be followed by one for Dumbledore, when the older man spoke again. "It was Harry Potter."

Remus paused. He set the bottle down.

"James' son? But Harry's just a baby -- oh." His heart, which had leapt into his throat, plummeted again. "Oh God. James...?"

"James and Lily," Dumbledore said, his face creased and weary. "Voldemort found them."

"But they were in -- "

"Their Secret-Keeper betrayed them."

Remus' hands began to shake. "Sirius would never -- "

"Sirius is in the custody of the Dementors."

"The Dementors?" Remus repeated, numbly.

"He killed thirteen people. Muggles," Dumbledore added. "On a crowded street. He betrayed the secret, and Peter had tried to track him down -- Peter is also dead. Sirius was the traitor, Remus."

Remus, mind reeling, leaned back on his counter for support. He tried to gather his thoughts, but only two came in with any clarity.

"But you say Harry's still alive?" he asked.

"In the custody of his Muggle relatives."

"And Voldemort...gone?"

"As far as we can tell."

Remus nodded. The second thought fell into place.

"Then it was worth it," he said, and hated himself for saying it.

His eyes began to roll up in his head then, and the last thing he saw before he fainted was Dumbledore starting up to catch him. He heard a thump, and felt the glass in his hand shatter when it hit the ground, and knew nothing more.

***

Remus' hands worked the soft wood, slowly, carefully. They did not shake now. Not since he'd seen James and Lily and Peter in the ground.

Well. He thought he'd seen Peter in the ground, anyhow.

 _So if you could save the world from darkness by killing three of your friends and imprisoning the fourth in a torture house, would you?_ he thought. He often asked himself that, and the answer was always the same: _I wasn't given a choice._

It would have been worse if he had been, because he was certain he would have done it.

If Harry did come back, what could he say to the people he would bring back with him? I was glad you died? I went mad and was committed to St. Mungo's? And what terrified him more was that he might not have to face James and Lily at all. How would he look Harry in the eye if it was Sirius that the boy had gone to find? If Harry chose Sirius over his own parents?

Which was nonsense. Of course it was nonsense. But this was deep magic, and mortals didn't often understand it. He'd given Harry all the blessing he could, and sent him off with a Death Eater, a spy, to the realm of the dead. When he came back --

\-- if he came back --

How could Remus Lupin not be there to witness? Who had come through the beginning and the end unscathed?

So he sat, and waited for the sun to set, and carved, and watched the people come and go.

***

When the rain of dirt and stones finally stopped, Harry was curled on the ground, hands protectively over his neck, knees tucked up underneath him. As it became obvious that the earthquake had ended, he lifted his head, shaking his shoulders to dislodge the soil that had settled there.

Then he looked up. And further up.

There was a body emerging from the ground, seemingly made of dirt; it stretched, and Harry could see that it ended at the waist and rose a good thirty feet, at least, into the air. From his crouched position he could see curling ram's horns, goat's eyes, a flat elongated nose, and a sneer.

"ANUBIS!" it cried angrily. It looked around, and Harry could see the ripple of muscles, as if under the dirt there was a living thing. "ANUBIS, COME TO ME!"

"He...he vanished," Harry said, hesitantly. The eyes fixed on him instantly, and he flinched.

"Another one?" said the great deep booming voice. "Another boy? How many wilt the Aboveway send to invade my home?"

Harry stared.

"Well? Art thou deaf?"

"I...didn't come to invade, exactly," Harry offered.

"Thou art here," the thing said, crossing its arms. "Thou hast attempted entrance and pestered my judge, hast thou not? Is't not invasion? Art thou a hero?" it added, in angry but...well, sort of slightly _hopeful_ tones. Harry ducked his head.

"Sort of," he admitted.

"Of what place and manner art thou? Soldier? Scholar? Artist?" the creature asked.

"I'm a student," Harry answered. "At Hogwarts."

He realised it was a stupid thing to say; something in the back of his mind told him this was Hades, and Hades probably didn't care much about where he went to school.

"A scholar of magic," Hades sniffed. "Thou shouldst well know better, scholar. But thou art a boy. Begone and I forgive."

Again. Harry'd had just about enough of this.

"I have to get in," he said stubbornly.

Hades threw back his head and laughed, eyes flickering with amusement.

"Go after thy friendling? He belongs to me now. All are mine who pass," Hades chuckled. "Thou amuseth me, boy. Get thee gone."

"That's not what Orpheus says," Harry answered. Hades stopped laughing abruptly.

"And what does thou know of Orpheus? Who art thou to speak to me thusly?"

"My name is Harry Potter," Harry said, stammering a little under Hades' intense stare. "I've come for Sirius Black."

Hades reached out a hand and flicked the scales aside; they toppled with a crash that shook the earth, and his eyes flared red.

"Thou cheater of death?" he demanded. "Thou who foiled the messenger to Hades? _Thou_ art the sable boy?"

Harry was staring at the scales, which had come within feet of crushing him when they fell.

"I didn't mean to," he said finally. "I was just a baby."

Hades narrowed his eyes, and the ground shook slightly as he bent to place his hands on it.

"Thou art a curiousity," Hades rumbled. "It will pass some time, and I say who comes and goes. Thou shalt come to the Museum."

He began to sink back into the ground. Harry watched, fascinated, until he realised that a glowing gate, traced in white-hot light in the rock, was appearing in one wall of the cavern.

"SEE TO THY DUTIES, ANUBIS!" came the final rumbling command, as Hades vanished entirely. "Drop the scales from his eyes, Jackal."

Harry turned to see Anubis emerging from quite a different area of the cavern altogether. Anubis bowed and waved a hand at the gate.

"Hades has said you shall enter," he said, in a confused voice. "And that I should...give you a gift..."

One of the creature's hands darted out, and Harry had just enough time to register the cruel claw on the end before it slashed him across the face -- a light scratch, just barely enough to draw blood and turn his head sharply to the left.

"You will see as the dead see," said Anubis, as Harry touched the burning cut. Then he looked up, and his eyes widened.

There were thousands of bodies in the cavern, greyish forms that were shaped vaguely like men and animals, filling, thronging the chamber. Each seemed to have a glowing centre, and it was obvious they were waiting...for something...

"Do not think that they are not there, simply because you cannot see them," Anubis reminded him, shoving him none too gently towards the white gate in the wall.

***

 _New-gathered dew from the heavens_  
 _Dripped down from Heaven's sweet trees,_  
 _Cups from the angels' pale tables_  
 _That will make me both handsome and wise._  
Vachel Lindsay

This is the river Styx, and those, down below the high cliff that overlooks the origin of the Styx, are the twin cities of Nir and Dis, the highest domains of Hades. The river splits them neatly, and flows straight and true towards the delta, where it branches into two halves and flows off into places no man, mortal or eternal, has yet seen. On the Nir side of the river, opulent white houses with red tile roofs line the banks, where parks full of trees and green grass and dirt paths run down to the water itself. There are rowboats and punts tied to stakes in the river, and fruit grows heavy on the trees.

On the other side -- Dis, the domain of the hopeless -- giant smokestacks belch dark clouds into the sky. They drift over the city, away from the river, choking whatever they come into contact with. Litter lines the riverbank, which is a deep, algae-covered swamp of mud, and a length of rusty chain-link fence hems in the damned.

Raised up, on the banks of the delta, is a large white building, engraved with many figures and supported by columns and bracings, nearly blinding in the light of the sun.

"Yes, it often strikes people that way," said a voice, and Harry, standing at the cliff's edge, turned suddenly. He had been enthralled by the view, and a little frightened, wondering how he would get down and where he would go from there.

Standing near him was the boy who had spoken -- not older than Harry, well-dressed, dark-haired. He had a narrow, sly-looking face, but friendly; his eyes sparkled and his lips curved in a friendly smile. He wore black trousers and a green shirt held tight against his body by a black silk waistcoat, and his left hand was encased in a Quidditch glove. There was a nasty, strange-shaped knife-- two blades crossed, to make it almost pyramidical in shape -- in a sheath at his hip. Harry recognized it from History of Magic classes: a Tibetan ghost dagger, a phurba, used to kill spirits with.

There was also just a shadowy hint of transparent black wings, protruding from the boy's back.

"Who are you?" Harry asked, curiously. The boy held out his hand.

"I've been sent to take you to the Museum," he said. "My name's Tom Riddle. What's yours?"

Harry felt a shiver run up his spine.

"Tom Riddle?" he asked, skin crawling.

"You've heard of me," Tom said grimly.

"But you're not -- "

"People keep saying that. Yes I am. I am dead," Tom sighed. "I mean, obviously I am, I wouldn't be here if I weren't dead, would I? You're not dead, of course, but then you're special. Oh, I brought this for you..."

Harry watched, stunned, as he dug in his pocket and pulled out a grubby bit of card, offering it to him. It was scrawled with strange runes, and had a giant V printed on it, along with a signature in vivid red. "It's a visitor's pass," Tom said proudly. "Go on, take it."

Harry accepted the card automatically, when Tom pressed it into his hand.

"But you're not dead," he repeated. "I saw you alive."

Tom smiled, almost gaily. "You probably saw Voldemort, didn't you? Nasty piece of work, him. He killed me off when we were seventeen. People can do that, you know -- they send the soul to the afterlife and they're still up walking around on earth. Anyhow, I reckon -- and Hades agrees -- that I'm sort of his...redeeming qualities. Mercy and a sense of humour and all that. Now it's just him." He paused, as if realising he'd been rambling. "And me, I suppose. Anyway, Hades sends me on jobs like this all the time -- not that we get many visitors!" he laughed. "I say, did you tell me your name?"

"My name's Harry Potter," Harry said.

Tom looked interested. "That's a nice name."

"You don't know it?"

"Well, you look a bit young to have been around when I was. Are you famous? I don't follow what goes on in the Aboveway very closely, for the main part. Some of them do. Come on, this way," he added, over his shoulder, as he began walking towards a switchback-path in the cliff. Harry could see now that it led down to the river, where there was a small dock, and about a dozen boats tied up to it.

"I don't know why they take an interest," Tom continued, while they walked. Harry was still in shock, fiddling with his visitor's pass, watching the other boy. He seemed normal, almost a little geeky -- just a lanky boy who talked a little too much and laughed easily. "I mean, we've got a perfectly good afterlife," he added, "and all they care about is whether the Red Sox have won the series yet or if Major's still PM, or what's being done about the Middle East. I do follow the games, of course -- right pain they cancelled Quidditch Cup, isn't it? Do you play?"

"I'm a Seeker," Harry replied automatically.

"What team?"

"Gryffindor."

"Up school!" Tom cried. "A Hogwarts boy! Course I'm bound to hate you since I was in Slytherin, but you seem a nice enough chap, and you've got to be at least a little deviant to get into Hades alive." He paused, thoughtfully. "Though I guess the real trick is getting out alive too, eh?"

They arrived at a little pier, gravel crunching under their shoes, and Tom jumped down into one of the boats, retrieving a long, worn wooden pole from the bottom of it.

"Jump in," he advised. "Fastest way to get to the Museum."

Harry crouched at the edge of the pier, looking down at Tom and the boat.

"If I wanted to find someone down here, how would I do it?" he asked. He didn't think he could even talk about Tom Riddle right now, so he resolutely stuck to his mission in coming here.

"Why..." Tom's brow furrowed. "You'd just do it, of course."

"But how?" Harry pressed. Tom deepened his thoughtful frown.

"You just do," he repeated. "You say 'I'd like to find so-and-so' and then you know where they are and you go and find them. Oh, it doesn't work that way in the Aboveway, does it? You probably can't do it. You probably have to be dead."

Harry nodded and slid his way into the boat, sitting on the little plank bench Tom indicated, while the other boy undid the rope fastening and pushed them out into the river. They skewed over to the side with the beautiful white houses, sticking near to the shore, while Harry thought quickly.

"Could you find someone for me?" he asked, as Tom piloted them forward, using the pole to push the boat along.

"My orders are to take you to the Museum," Tom replied.

"But if I just wanted to know where someone was?"

"Oh, sure, I guess. Heard you had a mate get sent down here alive by mistake, you looking for the silver boy?"

Harry watched the grassy banks roll by. "No, he can take care of himself."

"That's the Slytherin spirit!" Tom said cheerfully. Harry turned to see the other side of the river -- all sorts of rubbish lining the bank, and big, ugly cement buildings beyond.

"I want to find Sirius Black," Harry said. "And..." he paused. "If you know where James and -- no...nevermind."

Tom looked down at him curiously. "You want me...not to find someone?"

Harry rested his chin on his hands, and closed his eyes. "They died," he said. "They're really dead. I can't bring them back with me. And if I can't bring them back I don't...I don't want to see them. They died, so they have to stay. But Sirius came in like...like Draco did. Through a gateway. So he might still be alive."

Tom shook some water off the pole, and continued his punting. "I'm sorry. Who were they?"

"My parents. Voldemort killed them."

"Oh." Tom fell silent for a while. Finally, he took a deep breath. "Black, you said?"

"Sirius, like the star."

"I know that name. He's on the Meadow. It's a big park in Nir." Tom scowled. "He spends a lot of time there, it's odd really."

"Are we going to pass the Meadow?"

"Sort of, but you won't see it. It's on the outskirts. Ah -- but that doesn't matter, Hades knows you're looking for him."

Harry looked up sharply. "What does that mean?"

"It means your friend Black is on the move. Hades has called him to the Museum. You'll see him there, I'm sure."

Harry trailed his fingers in the water idly. Tom spoke again. "Harry old chap..." he shook off his pole, and continued. "Have you considered the idea that your friend may not want to go back with you? Even if Hades were to allow it, which he most assuredly won't."

Harry rubbed his cheeks distractedly. "This can't be real," he said.

***

The city of Dis is the abode of the hopeless, where filthy workers make nothing in factories all day, and drag themselves home at night to bare empty rooms, sleeping on floors or sagging, filthy mattresses, piles of rags. They rarely sleep peacefully; they dream nightmares.

In Nir, there is no need to eat, though many enjoy it; each does what they love best to do. But here, in Dis, it is the nightmare of everyone who ever dreamed of Utopia, the horror of the humanitarian. Here, the deserving of punishment suffer a dull, endless despair. Those who live in such places on Earth at least have the dream of earning themselves a better life -- or, if not that, the hope of heaven. These have no such luck.

Of course there are the traditional punishments, rolling heavy stones uphill and being buried in filth and swimming in lakes of blood, but for most, the pettiness of their own selves dooms them to a petty, tired after-existence. They dine on the filth of their own souls, and it is the least of them who are the preparers of the feast.

In a wretched cafeteria on the Dis side of Hades, filthy workers moved about, preparing strange-looking food for rag-clad ghouls to devour. Through the windows, bare-chested men and women in plain view suffered physical torment. It was some little entertainment, and the wretched devoured it with their eyes.

A small figure in rags straightened, a handful of black tentacles clenched in one hand. Ancient scars crisscrossed the young face, and grey eyes burned from under a plain black cowl. The Overseer struck him across the back, and Draco sprawled on the filthy floor, whimpering.

"No stealin' the food," the Overseer barked.

"I didn't steal anything," Draco protested weakly. The Overseer swung his cane again, and Draco's ribs seared in pain.

"And no lip, look ye," the Overseer concluded, walking away.

"Yessir," Draco muttered, pulling himself to his feet. He tottered to a large soup tureen over a weak flame, and threw the tentacles into the scummy mixture, stirring listlessly.

_How long have I been here? Time is nothing in this place, all times are the same, are one. Which means that now is forever._

_Oh god._

_What happened to the time before? This now was not always...I remember. However long I've been here, I remember._

***

Lucius Malfoy stood in the foyer of the family manor, looking down at his somewhat diminutive eleven-year-old son. Nearby sat a trunk, stuffed full of school things, and a book-bag filled with new parchment, quills and inkpots, and a few books.

"Your things are packed," he said.

"Yes, father," Draco answered. He always stood a little taller in his father's presence.

"You have all you need?"

"Yes, father."

"Then come walk with me," Lucius said, turning to the front door. They stepped out into the fading warmth of the day -- summer was waning fast, this year.

The gardens of the manor were particularly cheery and well kept, mostly full of bright, large-petaled flowers, almost all of which were lethal in some fashion. Draco felt his father's hand on his shoulder.

"I am the sole heir to the Malfoy fortunes, Draco," Lucius said. "And you are my sole heir. We name our sons to make the line proud; I was named to be a bringer of cold, hard light, penetration to the heart of matters. I take that responsibility very seriously -- I penetrate." He paused. "And do you know why you are named Draco, my son?"

"To be strong," Draco answered. "Dragon-like."

Lucius gave him a mirthless smile. "We shall have to remedy the gaps in your classical education, Draco. You were not named for dragons. Dragons are noble but not very bright."

Draco looked up at his father, curiously. "Then why?" he asked.

"When you were born," Lucius said, carefully, "The Dark Lord was at the height of his power. You were the first-born of those in his inner circle."

They passed a statue of a satyr, doing something outrageous to a nymph -- Narcissa liked statues.

"The first strong healthy baby son born under his blossoming rule," Lucius continued. "You were my heir and you were to be his heir." Lucius stopped then, and regarded a planter of roses. "I have never told you this."

"No, father," Draco answered dutifully.

"You were therefore given a king's name," Lucius said. "Your mother held out for Augustus, but that's a silly name to give a child, I always thought."

Draco felt a creeping horror. "It was a choice between Draco and Augustus?" he asked, morbidly intrigued. Apparently nobody had, in their contemplation of his name, ever contemplated a life saddled with a name like Draco.

Lucius examined the head of his walking stick, then tapped the other end against one of the rose-bushes. The petals turned from red to white as they fell. "There were other suggestions made. By close friends. A name is a terribly important thing, you see."

"And you picked Draco," the boy said.

"It was the Dark Lord's suggestion," Lucius nodded. "Draco was a strong, a noble and a brave king. His rule brought mankind to its knees for the slightest offence. You were named to rule."

Draco picked up one of the white petals. It turned black and shriveled in his palm, revealing a tiny barb that Lucius picked up carefully.

"What about now?" Draco asked. Lucius tossed the barb back into the planter.

"Oh, there's nothing to stop you," he said lightly. "You may be the next Lord, you know. Bring Wizarding law to Muggles. Terminally, if necessary. So," he dusted his hands, "You must be a leader of children. This is the start. You must excel and lead."

Draco watched as a bird pecked among the roses. He rather hoped it would miss the barb. He liked sparrows.

"Yes, Father," he repeated.

"You are a king of men, Draco. The world is yours to rule. Remember."

"I will, Father."

***

_I still remember, thought the boy in the rags. However long I am here, I will still remember._


	3. Chapter 3

_And I bethought me of my youth_  
 _When such men came around_  
 _And times I asked them in, quite sure_  
 _The scissors should be ground._  
Vachel Lindsay

Tom, who was unused to people being upset or angry with him, looked down at Harry as he pushed them along the river.

"Black has told me his story, you know," Tom said.

"Small underworld," Harry answered skeptically.

"I tend to seek out those...touched by my other half, if they wish to see me."

"Touched?" Harry asked.

"His wrongs are my wrongs by proxy," Tom said. "That's not the point. There is a way of storytelling we have here, with the shift of the eyes, the way the hands move -- I didn't know your name, but you're his godson, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Look at it this way," Tom said. "It's not a grand life he had anyhow. He was some sort of soldier, wasn't he?"

Harry examined his hands. "I suppose," he said softly. "He ran away from home when he was my age."

"Ah! Yes. And then he was in prison and a fugitive. Trapped away from humanity. How can that make a dog happy? They need people."

Harry looked up at him sharply. Sirius wouldn't have told that --

"Jealous, Harry?" Tom asked, with a smile. "He was a good man, but not a happy one. I think he's happy here."

"Sirius will want to come back," Harry insisted.

"Sirius has spent his existence in dark corners. Nir is an abode of light."

The boat bumped against the dock, then, and Tom used the pole to vault ashore. He held out his hand to Harry.

"You'll see," Harry said resentfully. Tom smiled and stretched his hand a little further, until Harry took it and was pulled ashore.

"Welcome to the Museum," Tom said, slinging an arm around Harry's shoulders. Harry stared up in wonder at the front of it, enormous white columns stretching upwards to the triangular, vaguely Greek-looking pediment adorned with carvings. Nearby, a large metallic face sat on a pedestal, half-corroded.

"What is it a museum of?" Harry asked, awed.

"It's a copy of the British Museum, complete in every detail of architecture," Tom said proudly. "It houses the souls who most entertain His Lordship. Souls of actors and great writers and great blasphemers and such."

"Why the British Museum?" Harry asked curiously.

"Well, most of the really good Greek marbles are there," Tom replied. "Come inside. His Lordship is waiting."

Harry followed Tom up the entrance and inside; they walked, Tom nonchalant, Harry overawed, down a couple of corridors, until they emerged into a giant round room. Harry vaguely recognised it as the Reading Room in the museum.

At the far end of the room, Hades sat on a large, brass-coloured throne -- he was not much smaller in real life than he had been as the soil representation Harry had encountered earlier. His skin was a dark brown, and his eyes glowed yellow. Next to him sat a woman with olive skin and neatly braided vines instead of hair, in a green mossy dress. She looked human, except for her hair; her head was tilted back, eyes closed.

Hades, gripping the arms of his throne, leaned forward.

"I would question thee, child, before thy petitionee is brought forth," he said, gravely. "My wife, Persephone," he added, waving a clawed hand at the woman, who did not move.

"Is Sirius here?" Harry asked.

Persephone's head lowered, and she opened her eyes; they were a light, soft shade of green, and had no pupils.

"Isn't it a funny one!" she exclaimed, turning to Hades, who made a gesture with one hand.

"Where's Sirius?" Harry asked. Tom nudged him, gently.

"Why dost thou come here, sable boy?" Hades asked. "Thou couldst come for thy parents or the Diggory boy thou saw murdered. Why dost thou come for this one?"

Harry felt his fists clench.

"Because he isn't dead," he said flatly. "The others are. I know I can't bring them back."

"Wise," Hades said. "Wisdom from a boy on a fool's quest. I should know if one in my kingdom had passed by Anubis without death. I knew when thy friendling did pass."

"Sirius didn't go past Anubis." Harry said. His words echoed in the large chamber.

"There is no other path to me," Hades growled. His eyes flared, and Persephone put a hand on his arm.

"There is," Harry answered, steadfast.

"You lie!" Hades' voice shook the walls.

"Ask Sirius." Harry tried to keep his voice from trembling.

"There be no entrance to the afterlife but through the Anubis gate!"

Persephone winced. Tom stepped forward, boots ringing on the bare floor.

"It's the truth, Lordship," he said softly. All of Hades' wrath suddenly seemed to focus on Tom, but the boy merely smiled and bowed his head slightly.

" _You_ have worked this mischief!" Hades roared.

"Not I," Tom replied. "The Aboveway -- "

Hades looked murderous. "Ten thousand curses upon the Aboveway!"

"Yes, sir."

"Not in millennia have the living broken a hole into my realm!"

"Would you like me to show you?" Tom asked. "I've seen it. Only Black has come through it. If you believe Harry."

Hades' claws tapped on the end of the throne arms.

"Thou shalt show, and soon," Hades said finally. "Thou shalt, Tom Riddle. Bring the man," he ordered, and Tom bowed and backed away, out of the room. 

"What about Malfoy?" Harry asked, mostly to keep Hades from staring silently at him.

"The silver boy? He was weighed," Hades said dismissively. "He is mine now."

"But he's still alive," Harry pointed out.

"His vitality be no concern of mine," Hades answered. "He chose judgment. Tis a sad thing. His whole self was more than his weight of sin."

Harry considered this. "D'you mean, because he had a body, he was judged worse than he might've been?"

"Aye."

"But he didn't know!"

"Ignorance is no excuse."

"It is if you're Malfoy," Harry answered. Hades broke a smile.

"Didst thou not wish to see him suffer? It is our way," he said.

"That's a stupid way of running things, then," Harry said, before he could think about how unutterably foolish it was.

"Thinkst thou could do better, little sable? Cheater of death?" Hades asked.

"Guess who's here!" Tom's voice called, breaking the tension. Hades glanced over, and Harry turned.

Sirius stood in the doorway, head bowed; Tom was vanishing into the shadows behind him.

His hair was cropped short, and scars were visible on his chest and neck. He looked hollow-eyed, though not tired; simply as though he was weary, not of any one thing, but of life. He reminded Harry of the first time he'd seen him, though there was still more flesh on him, and his hair did not hang down.

"Sirius!" Harry shouted, starting forward. Sirius lifted his face, then, and Harry saw there were scars there, too.

"Harry," he said, roughly. Harry stopped, and stood very still. "Damn you."

***

This is the great city Nir Dis, the city which has no foil, no mirror. It is divided by the river Styx, which I punt my boat on. Charon and I have boat-races, when there aren't any souls to be taken to the Museum.

When I came here Charon brought me up to the Museum, because Anubis saw that I did not have a full heart. Such a thing does happen; we are sent here to await our other half, and then when we are reunited we are properly judged. Until then we are free to roam, not confined to Nir as the good are, nor to Dis as the wretched. We are sent wandering on his Lordship's or her Ladyship's pleasure.

I've heard I could even go Aboveway, if I liked. I wonder if it's true.

I've also heard talk of the silver boy who came with the sable boy. I listen at doors. I see things. I've seen the story of the silver boy in Harry Potter's eyes. A vicious little child, slaving as the least of the wretched in the kitchens of Hell.

Do you know, his Lordship has said that we, the castoffs -- the good or evil that was killed by our still-living twins -- are like the creatures of the Christ-worshippers. Those who are the remnants of all a mortal's evil, the castoffs of a saint or a genius, are disfigured, mean-spirited, spiteful monsters. They are not seen often in the Museum; they guard the gates of Dis and patrol its streets, vicious and unforgiving beings.

We, on the other hand, those of us who are the remnants of a mortal's good qualities, are like myself. Proud and young forever, or until our second half rejoins us. Her Ladyship calls us angels.

Angels know what justice is, better than Hades, whose judgments are not tempered by compassion.

***

Tom was well known in the city of Dis, and barely gave the monstrosity guarding the gate a nod as he passed through. He didn't like Dis, but he still spent time there; he was drawn to the suffering, felt that someone ought to witness it. Pain seen is pain shared, and Tom was a cheerful, joyful lad who tended to bring comfort to his acquaintances. Today, however, comfort was not what Tom had on his mind.

He let his fingers drift out to touch the stone of the gate as he passed, and smiled slightly when his fingers came away covered in black soot. Tom was an angel, but he was the castoff of worse evil than many could achieve if they tried. And it was not necessarily true that, when the good in Voldemort was killed, no evil came attached to it.

There was a city square Tom knew, where he often went to watch the aimless, the hopeless, gather to stare about them. It was a cold sort of torment, having nowhere to go, nothing to do, no aims, no hopes, no dreams.

Well, he might as well make things a little exciting for them.

He reached out and picked up a claw-handed old man, whose toothless gums flapped in protest. Tom, with all the power of divine righteousness behind him, held the man off the ground and snarled.

"Take me to the eating-place," he said grimly.

They walked through the filthy streets, Tom occasionally kicking some bit of rubbish out of his way. The old man moved surprisingly fast; probably well-experienced in dodging the demons that filled the city. When he finally stopped, Tom took a moment to look around him, then nodded.

"Now go away," he said, and the old man scuttled to comply.

His presence, pale and tall and perfect, was like a bright flare in the middle of the wretched, greasy eating-place. All around him people hunched over their awful scummy soup, or strange greyish lumps of food best not examined closely, if at all. There was no way to tell the silver boy apart; he could be any one of a hundred cowled figures.

"Well," Tom murmured to himself. "There's one sure way."

He raised his hands, the quidditch glove shining dully in the dim light, and shouted "DRACO MALFOY!"

A small figure behind the counter looked up, so suddenly that the hood covering his face fell back. Tom saw two things distinctly, before the Overseer of the place hit the boy with a stick so hard that he crumpled to the ground. The first was that the silver boy had scars on his face; the second was that, under the hood, a small tabby cat was crouched.

"Back to work, worthless excrement," the Overseer snarled. Draco did not move.

Tom was over the counter in a heartbeat, feet on either side of the unconscious boy, hand catching the stick even as it fell.

"Let him alone, Overseer," he said, softly.

"Half-breed!" the Overseer shrieked. "Even you wouldn't dare -- "

"Watch me," Tom replied, never taking his eyes from the Overseer's face as he knelt to put an arm under the silver boy, to help him up and support him.

"Against the law! Unright!"

"I can dare," Tom replied calmly. He felt the boy struggling to stand on his own, and put a helpful shoulder under his armpit. "I am one of Lordship's messengers. I can dare."

The Overseer lunged, and there was a sound like metal grating across metal; Draco stumbled and caught himself on the counter as Tom left his side. One of Tom's hands had gone around the Overseer's head, grasping the hair firmly; the other held a small transparent blade at throat-level.

"Shall I sever your connection to this place and let your soul sink down to Valhalla?" Tom asked, still in that smooth, soft, dangerous voice. "I don't really want to, but if you insist..."

The Overseer began to back away slowly, bumping into things, eyes never leaving the dagger.

"I am a servant of Hades, and I walk where I will. Stir your own filthy soup from now on," Tom said with finality. He grasped Draco again and was pleased when the boy did his best to stand on his own. They walked away from the eating-place, carefully, and Tom did not re-sheath the dagger until they were well gone.

"I knew it was a mistake," Draco murmured. "I knew I wasn't supposed to go here."

"That was no mistake," Tom replied blithely. "You were sent here for your sins. You're a horrible, petty person, and I'd leave you here, except that your punishment, while just, was unjustly meted."

"What?"

"You came to Hades for reasons of evil. But your whole body was weighed, not just your heart. No doubt you would have been allowed quite a different set of choices if you hadn't been stupid."

Tom reached out and plucked Draco's arm up, examining the Dark Mark tattooed on it.

"Don't I know?" he asked. "Don't you serve dark things? I suppose he sent you to bring someone out. Who were you to rescue?"

"Don't be stupid," Draco answered. "Saving the dead is idiot's work. Let Potter do it."

"Then why did you come down here, silver boy?" Tom asked, curiously.

Several things happened in very quick succession.

Draco's hand darted out and pulled the dagger from its sheath at the same time he danced away from Tom's supporting arm. Tom twisted with the move and nearly caught him, but he couldn't grasp the weapon by its blades -- he risked the fate he had offered the Overseer.

"I came for one of these," Draco said, dagger out, jerking it this way and that as Tom tried to get close. Other miserable residents of Dis appeared in a circle to look on curiously.

A series of emotions ran their way across Tom's mobile face, in quick succession; first surprise and dismay, and then a narrow-eyed anger, but neither lasted more than a second before he settled on amused condescension.

"Now you can go. I've got what I came for," Draco said nervously. "I won't kill you if you run away now."

"You came to Hades, risking death and torment, suffering in Dis, for a spirit dagger?" Tom asked, crossing his arms. "Do they have such power in the Aboveway?"

"More than you can dream of," Draco answered.

"But I did dream," Tom replied. "I am Tom Riddle, silver boy."

Draco's eyes grew round. "No -- he's still alive -- "

"Part of us, certainly," Tom replied. "It's an interesting irony. You know, I liked you up until now."

Tom's fist shot out faster than even Draco could react. It caught him across the mouth, bloodying his lip. Draco reeled and tried to slice with the dagger, but Tom ducked and dove, one hand catching Draco's wrist even as he twisted in the air.

Tendon pressed to bone; Draco shrieked in agony and let the dagger fall. It clattered to the ground with a noise that was deafening, even above the raucous cheers of those watching. Tom scooped up the blade before someone else could, hand still clamped around Draco's wrist, and twisted the boy's arm up behind him. Draco seethed, writhing in pain. Tom, quite deliberately, pressed the dagger to the boy's throat.

"This IS interesting, isn't it?" he asked, amiably.

Then he looked up.

At the mob.

***

 _Bring me a song like hashish_  
 _That will comfort the stale and the sad,_  
 _For I would be mending my spirit,_  
 _Forgetting these days that are bad._  
Vachel Lindsay

"Damn you, Harry."

Sirius' words fell like lead weights on the floor of the great circular hall. Harry, stunned, stared at him.

"Damn you," he repeated, but Harry was already turning back to Hades.

"I thought -- Tom said he was in Nir, and Nir was a place without pain..." he waved a hand at the scars on Sirius' body. "What did you do to him? Here, of all places, we thought he had peace -- "

Hades looked offended. Sirius started forward, a warning on his lips, but the enormous beastlike man had already leaned over, backhanding Harry to the ground with a flick of his wrist.

"Thou wilt not be rude to me in my own house, sable boy," he rumbled. Sirius had reached Harry by the time the last echo had died away, and he pulled him up, gripping his neck and staring into his face.

"That was stupid," he said urgently.

"What did they do to you?" Harry managed, through the pain and the shock.

"Not this. Listen, you don't know...you shouldn't have come, dammit!" Sirius growled. Hades and Persephone looked on with avid interest. "The one time I wish you'd bloody well stayed where you were, and you end up here. Really fucking brilliant, Harry."

Harry fought down anger, and hurt, and a creeping sense of betrayal. "I came to get you back!" he said, his voice high and tense. "You look like you could use a rescue," he added, sharply.

Hades reached out again and brushed Harry aside like he would a fly; not violently, just firmly. Two of his fingers cupped Sirius' chin, lifting it up so that he could examine his torso, his face.

"The living who enter my realm without permission are not untouched," he boomed. "They be marked by their soul-scars. Tis plain this one has a great many."

Sirius did not flinch, even when one of the claws on Hades' fingers traced the line of a scar under his ribcage.

"What does he mean, soul-scars?" Harry demanded. Sirius held up a hand.

"Our life troubles. Our burdens," he said, moving slowly. Hades had let his hand fall away, but Sirius obviously didn't want to accidentally be skewered if he startled him. "They're all visible here. They're real."

"Like the maze?" Harry asked. Persephone began to laugh.

"It understands so well!" she said, pleased. Hades regarded Sirius with dark eyes.

"There is no doubt thou art still alive," he mused. "Troublesome. I must deliberate."

Persephone gave him a sudden, sharp glare. Hades nodded and corrected himself. " _We_ must deliberate. Tom!" he called, suddenly -- so suddenly that Harry, who was still staring at Sirius, flinched.

"It wanders in Dis," Persephone said, in a reminding tone which told anyone who cared to listen that Hades did not bother to check things as thoroughly as his wife.

"No matter. Gaius!" Hades called, and a soldier stepped forward, dressed in what looked like antique imperial Roman armor. The only weapon he carried was a ghost dagger at his hip, like Tom's.

"I serve, Emperor," he said.

"Take them to chambers. Let the muses be brought if they so desire," Hades said, dismissively. He turned to Sirius. "Thou'lt sleep when thou desirist. Upon thy waking, judgment shall be passed."

Harry began to move forward again. "But it's not fa -- "

Sirius caught him by the shirt-collar, jerking him back sharply just before Hades' hand would have knocked him flat again.

"I did not ask thee to speak, cheater of death," Hades said. " Go now. Thou'rt like a wasp in the ear."

"Let's not make trouble, Harry," Sirius said, in his ear, fingers still firm on his shirt. "Any more than you already have."

Gaius led them -- Sirius silent, Harry sullen -- through several hallways and large white-walled rooms, filled with people Harry didn't know. Finally they reached an unoccupied one, full of old-fashioned furniture, heavy draperies, thick-paneled windows, a huge stone fireplace. There were strange couches, which looked as though they were the product of real couches who had mated with beds and had unfortunate results.

There was a table in the middle of the room. It had a full, steaming tea service on it.

"Well," Harry said, peering around. "This is anticlimactic."

"Would you like music?" Gaius asked. "Or dancing? I could call the Muses."

"No," Sirius said abruptly. "Thank you. Harry and I need to speak."

Gaius made some sort of ancient salute, and left them. Sirius, ignoring Harry's questioning look, poured two cups of tea, adding sugar to his and a lemon to Harry's. He held it up to his lips, and inhaled, slowly.

"We don't eat here. We don't need to, at any rate. But tea is nice," he said quietly.

Harry stared at him.

"I didn't think I'd ever see you again!" he said, slamming the teacup down on the table. Sirius winced. "And the first thing I hear from you is 'Damn you, Harry'? I thought I was going to have to die before -- "

"Don't," Sirius said, his voice pleading. "Don't talk about that. Please, Harry..."

Harry looked down at the teacup. He'd cracked it, and tea was slowly leaking onto the crisp white tablecloth.

"Then what do we talk about?" Harry asked. Sirius' hands tightened on his cup.

"You've gotten taller, haven't you?" he asked. "So rare I actually got to see you..."

Harry was silent.

"I just wish you'd stayed above. You were safe there. Sort of," Sirius added.

"Grown a bit," Harry muttered. He sat and reached for another cup, pouring his tea into it.

"You'll be as tall as James," Sirius said. Harry glanced up at him.

"Have you...seen him?" Harry managed. Sirius turned to face him fully. The scar on his throat stood out white, almost glowing.

"I could have, if I'd wanted to, but..." his fingers tapped the rim of his teacup. "I did want to. But people here...you see it after a while. People change. That's how I knew I was still alive..."

"How's that?" Harry asked.

"They get glassy-eyed. Euphoric, I think," Sirius said. "I didn't want to see James and Lily like that. Not unless I was...with them, not when I was so...goddamned conscious." He paused. "Didn't you want to see them?"

Harry shrugged. Sirius smiled and shook his head. "You can try that on other people, Harry, but I know that move."

"More than anything," Harry said.

"But...?"

"I knew I couldn't bring them back." Harry tapped his fingers on the rim of his cup. "And now I can't even save you."

Sirius looked at him, suddenly grave once more. "If you've come here, Harry, and seen me, and I'm not allowed to come back with you -- is that better or worse than me being dead?"

Harry rubbed his cheeks, trying to hide the tears that were squeezing out despite his best efforts.

"How could I not try?" he asked, plaintively. He heard Sirius stand and he stood too, letting the older man pull him into his arms. "I had to try," he said, into Sirius' chest.

"Of course you did, Harry," he murmured. He stroked his shoulders, leaned back, ruffled Harry's hair affectionately. "Of course you did," he said. Harry nodded, silently, and Sirius let him go.

"And now we wait," he said, seating himself again. Harry strayed to one of the wide, heavy windows, looking out on the city of Dis. Smoke was rising over the city, into a sky that was fast darkening towards full night.

"I can hear the shouts from here," Sirius said. "Dis again, isn't it?"

"What's going on?" Harry asked.

"Riots."

"There's fire in the city." Harry, unwilling to re-tread the path they'd just followed, crossed his arms. "Do they riot often?"

"Sometimes. More than usual, lately, I think," Sirius replied. Harry heard a spoon clicking against the insides of the teacup.

"And I bet nobody in Nir does anything, do they?"

"We're living souls, Harry, we don't understand how it is. The riots are part of the punishment, I think."

"Draco's probably over there somewhere."

"You couldn't do him any good even if you knew where."

"I didn't say I wanted to do anything about it."

"But you do," Sirius said, maddeningly calm, now. "You can't help it."

"Why couldn't I help Draco?"

"The inhabitants of Nir aren't allowed past the city gates. Even the living ones," Sirius added. "The first riots after I came here...I tried to go..."

"What happened?"

"They threatened to cut my soul, send me to some other place." Sirius shrugged as Harry turned back to face him. "The people of Nir don't think on it. I don't believe they think on much, really."

"It sounds awful," Harry murmured.

"It's eternal bliss," Sirius said flatly. "There are other ways -- other than Nir Dis, I mean. But people are tired when they end life, Harry. They want to rest. Maybe they don't realise it's a...a permanent rest."

There was a surprised exclamation -- it sounded like Gaius, standing on guard outside the door -- and then a grunt. Harry and Sirius both turned toward the door, curiously.

Tom, Draco's slim figure slumped over one shoulder, stumbled into the room. Draco's hair hung down, and there was blood in it; Tom's glove was coming unstrapped, his shirtsleeve torn and bound with a scrap of cloth. The ghostly wings above his shoulderblades looked tattered, as if they'd been torn by claws, and one seemed crooked.

Tom was grinning, however, as he lowered Draco to the ground. Harry and Sirius merely stared.

"I think I found your silver boy," he said.

***

In another part of the Museum, empty but for a giant stone bedstead, Hades stood looking down on the river Styx, which was turning black in the darkness.

"Tis truly a wonder they never tire of it," he said.

"The riots?" Persephone asked, from the bed. She was toying with one of her braids, fingers scratching away the green outer skin to reveal the white plant underneath.

"I bethought myself of Nir," Hades replied.

Persephone smiled, and shrugged. "Who can fathom mortal souls?"

One of Hades' clawed hands tapped on the windowsill, the other holding back thick, elegant, and tattered drapes.

"I cannot allow that two living creatures should remain in my cities. They will have to die," he said, finally.

"A bit hard on the poor things."

"The man will be happy. Happier than he has been," Hades remarked. "His boy came by my leave, he may be sent home. The silver boy may escape Dis, after a penance."

"He carries a strong mark against him."

Hades smiled. "He be like the sable boy. They understand very little of the meaning of things."

Outside the door, Tom Riddle stood and listened, as he had when Harry had asked Hades what was to happen to Draco. Tom was good at listening. Especially things he shouldn't be hearing. He'd left Draco to Harry and Sirius, and now he fingered the loose, torn straps on his glove as he tried to make sense of his master's decision.

Foolishness, he decided. He had never known Hades to be so foolish. But then his master was enraged by the presence of a man who had come not through Anubis, nor through Hades himself, but through a gateway in the mortal world.

"Perhaps I will give the sable boy a choice," Hades said. "Two souls must remain. He may leave, or send a comrade Aboveway again."

"If he stays, he will certainly go to Nir," said Persephone. "That's not so bad."

"No indeed." Hades sounded smug. "A fair judgment. I tell them in the morning."

Tom, peering through a crack, saw that Persephone looked troubled.

"Is it not odd, think you, that a realm without time has day and night? Was it always thus? Sometimes I recall it was not."

"I do not dwell on the dark beginnings of my world," Hades said, with a finality that Tom understood -- he'd often been subject to it.

Tom turned and walked quietly away; not until he was in the great receiving room again did he begin to run. Through the galleries, now empty, past Gaius without even a salute. He skidded to a stop in front of one of the strange bed-couches that Harry and Sirius had moved Draco onto; the silver boy was sitting up, hunched over a cup of tea.

"He's going to kill us, isn't he?" Sirius said, when he saw Tom's face.

"No," Tom said, eyes wide with worry. "He's going to make me do it."


	4. Chapter 4

_Yea, by the chastened jest alone_  
 _Will ghosts and terrors pass_  
 _And fays, or suchlike friendly things,_  
 _Throw kisses through the glass._  
Vachel Lindsay

Outside Wayland's Smithy, full dark had fallen; Remus sat with his back to the fencepost, and also to the moon, working the chip of wood with his knife. In the distance, there was a familiar howl. He smiled bitterly.

Wolves survived in Britain, of course. That was the thing about true wolves. They always found ways to adapt -- to live with their circumstances, no matter how debased those circumstances were. They'd avoid humans, but if they had to they'd still dig in trash cans and eat from midden heaps. Because they were survivors. Remus had learned a lot from wolves.

He stood to stretch, and walked to a nearby bush, obeying a call of nature that had very little to do with wolves at all. Sleepy and stiff, he didn't notice the two amber lights in the night until he was almost ready to walk away --

A wolf. Brindle. Bigger than most dogs. Bigger than most wolves.

"Oh," Remus said, backing away slowly. "Shit."

The wolf advanced, skin crawling back over its teeth. Remus saw a wary intelligence in its eyes. Wolves weren't supposed to attack humans unprovoked, he recalled, wolves were gentle creatures who hunted to eat and mated for life --

Apparently this wolf had not read the literature. It growled, moving forward. _Look like a human, don't I,_ Remus thought. _But I smell like a wolf. And I'm in your territory._

"Good wolf," he said, feeling extremely stupid. He refused to let his eyes leave the animal's face. "Good wolf -- " he'd left his knife and wand at the fencepost, if he could get back there --

The wolf snarled. Remus' eyes widened.

And then they turned yellow.

And then he snarled back.

The wolf froze and made an inquiring, almost frightened noise in its throat. Remus, fighting for control, snarled again. He'd never encountered an actual, living, willing-to-attack wolf as a human; apparently this very territorial creature was bringing out the beast --

"My place," he snarled. "My people."

The animal made another inquiring noise, beginning to scrabble backwards through the bushes.

"Mine," Remus growled, baring his teeth. He could feel that his canines had lengthened.

The wolf cowered, suddenly, and ran. Remus put his hand to his face, felt his teeth re-settle, and knew his eyes were changing. He could suddenly and amazingly see in colour again. (He never got tired of that bit.)

"Still alpha," he said to himself, slightly smug.

***

Draco and Tom sat on the strange bed, Harry and Sirius on a low table nearby. A scruffy tabby cat sat on Draco's lap.

"Went through the mob like a bat out of hell," Tom said, indicating the cat. "If I wasn't one myself I'd say you've got a guardian angel. Dunno where the thing came from."

"I found it," Draco said softly. Sirius, who had been sitting very still, rubbed a hand across his forehead.

"We are agreed, let's just be clear, that we think killing Draco and me is a bad idea?" Sirius said. Harry and Tom nodded. "I don't think I want eternal bliss. I've gotten rather used to being self-aware."

"We've got to get out of here," Harry said. "That's obvious, I mean."

"Tom can take us back up the river," suggested Sirius. "You said that's how you came in?"

"It's not a revolving door, you know, you can't get out that way. Not unless Hades opens the gate himself." Tom was tearing and tying a length of drapery, re-securing his glove to his hand.

"You brought Malfoy out of Dis; can't you...?" Harry trailed off as Tom shook his head. He glanced sidelong at Draco, who looked like death warmed over.

"We barely got out of it," Tom said. "I haven't got that much power."

They sat silently for a while, Draco stroking the cat in an absent sort of way.

"It's exciting, isn't it?" Tom asked suddenly. Harry and Sirius exchanged a look. "We could go out the way Sirius came in. I know where it is. I haven't tried, but..."

"Wouldn't work," Harry answered. "You can't go back. They told me so."

"It's the first place they'd look if they found us gone," Sirius added. Tom smiled.

"Well, we're foiled as soon as Hades finds out anyhow," he said. "He can go anywhere in the upper cities, quick as a flash."

"The upper cities?" Harry said slowly.

"Nir and Dis. I mean if he wants to go to the lower cities he actually has to move there physically, same as we would. You've got Valhalla down there. And the lowest circle, you know. Big ugly angry demon chewing on the heads of three historical blokes." Tom paused. "I'm rambling again, aren't I?"

"There's a way out past the lowest circle, isn't there?" Harry asked. Sirius opened his mouth to speak, but saw that he was looking at Draco.

"It's how they escaped in the story," Draco mumbled.

"Past Satan?" Tom asked, blinking.

"Looks like you're getting your Dante after all, Malfoy," Harry said.

"How do we get there?" Sirius asked Tom, who shook his head.

"You're not serious," he said.

"Actually," Sirius said, a smile spreading across his face, "I am."

Tom covered his face with one hand and laughed.

"That was distinctly not funny," he said, through his fingers. "There's a path behind the Museum, through the domain of the Muses. But you know the legends, don't you?"

Sirius' smile faded. "What legends?"

"Once we're on the path back to the Aboveway -- when we reach Cocytus -- that's when we officially leave Hades' realm. Harry has to lead us. He can't look back."

"It's the rules," Harry said solemnly.

"That's a stupid rule," Sirius pointed out.

"Most of them are," Tom sighed.

"Old magic," Harry murmured. "Superata tellus sidera donat."

Sirius turned sharply, to face him.

"Where did you hear that?" he demanded.

"It's a charm," Harry said, with a shrug. Sirius continued to stare at him. "Remus Lupin gave it to me before we came down."

The lines seemed to deepen on Sirius' face, his eyes seemed to sink further into his head.

"I have a couple of ideas," he said.

***

Poor Gaius never knew what hit him. What hit him was, in fact, Tom's fist in the back of his head.

"I always wanted to do that, the smug bastard," Tom said, as Sirius stripped the soldier for his armor and began to put it on.

"Who was he?" Harry asked curiously, helping to buckle the leather breastplate.

"Dunno. Some Roman bloke. Insufferable with his "Yes Emperor" and "I serve the Republic" and that."

"You're a bit vindictive, for an angel," Sirius observed, reaching for the dagger in Gaius' belt, the only actual weapon he carried. Tom's hand shot out and caught his wrist.

"Don't touch it," Tom said. "Our knives are our honour. Even I wouldn't take that from him."

Sirius nodded and continued to dress while Draco watched listlessly, and Tom and Harry watched Gaius. When he was ready, he spread his arms, and Tom nodded.

"You'll pass," he said. "Come on."

He led them through the twisting corridors of the Museum, past many more rooms than they'd seen even in arriving at their own room. When he finally ducked through a doorway and beckoned them on, they found themselves in a garden behind the Museum; a clearing and round paved area, lined with benches, and lit with torches in the dim night.

There were figures seated on the benches -- women in white robes, talking amongst themselves, the shadows flickering across their faces.

"Who are they?" Harry breathed.

"The nine muses," Tom replied. "They live here, behind the Museum. Not too loudly now -- "

He gave a little groan, for it was too late; the women had looked up and spotted them. As one, they chorused Tom's name and stood, running forward to greet him. When he finally managed to disentangle himself, they stood together, facing the four men (and cat) with curiousity.

"Who're your friends, Tom?" one of them asked.

"They're handsome of face," another added.

"Sable boy and silver boy," said a third.

"And dark man and our Tom," said the first who'd spoken.

"They're alive."

"Surely not."

"Sable boy and silver boy surely are."

"I have visited the dark man," said one of them, a girl with arching eyebrows and cascading brown hair.

"Silence, all of you," said one who'd not yet spoken, and they all ceased to talk. She stepped forward and held out her hand; Tom bowed, pressing his forehead against it.

"Welcome to our home," she said to the others. "Tom is often our guest." She turned back to him with a smile. "We have changed our names, Tom."

"Oh yes, Calliope?" Tom asked. She wrinkled her nose.

"Imagine being Calliope for all eternity!" she exclaimed. "My name is Priscilla now."

"Priscilla?" Harry asked.

"Is there something wrong with that?" the muse replied, in a dangerous tone.

"No. No, nothing at all," Sirius said hastily.

"If my name were Euterpe," Tom began, but one of the women clapped her hands and cried out "Jenny!"

"I see," Tom murmured. "Urania?"

"Alice."

Sirius, leaning forward, spoke into Tom's ear. "Things are changing. There are more riots. We never had night before. And now this."

"It makes me uneasy," Tom whispered back, as the other girls announced their new names. "Something is wrong in the Lower Way. The muses are fickle, and if you call them by one name they'll change it, but not their first names, the oldest ones."

"I wanted to be Alice but Urania already took it, so I picked Allison instead," one of the women was saying.

"A good name, Clio," Tom replied, forcing a smile.

"Stay a while with us, Tom," said Erato, the woman who claimed to have visited Sirius, and who had declared herself to be Monica. "Or leave your friends to visit with us..."

A look of mild panic crossed Tom's face. "We really must be going," he said hastily. The muses parted, and he herded the others through the garden, towards the darkness.

"What were you saying about the Lower Way?" Harry asked. "I couldn't hear."

"The cities -- things are changing," Tom said quickly, as they walked through the gloom. "It could be because you're here. But I think...it's been coming for some time. I think it's the archway, it unbalances the nature of this place. Your coming just made it worse, that's all." He looked determined. "I'm coming with you to the Aboveway. The cities frighten me, and I'm tired of them. And something must be done about the arch."

"How much further?" Harry asked, after an uncomfortable silence. Tom pointed to where the road ahead of them ended in another steep cliff, guarded by two sentries in Roman armour.

"Past the Ianorum, down the Abyss and around Valhalla."

Sirius and Harry exchanged a sardonic look. "Is it me, or was that the dumbest sentence since 'second star to the right and straight on 'til morning'?" Harry asked.

"What's an Ianorum?" Sirius inquired, when Tom laughed. The boy pointed to the guards.

"They are."

The Ianorum crossed their spears.

"Can't we just...go around them?" Sirius asked.

"That doesn't really work," Tom replied. "Bloody stupid rules." He turned to Sirius, drawing his dagger. "There are two ways we can do this."

"Yes?"

"Charm, or brute force," Tom said firmly.

"I happen to be good at both," Sirius said with a grin. He stepped forward. "Ho, citizens."

"Ho," said one of the Ianorum.

"Ho, Citizen," the other one echoed. Sirius nodded.

"We require...passage," he said. "Er. On behalf of the Emperor."

"Passport," the first one snapped. Sirius rubbed the back of his head.

"What?"

"Got to have a passport to get through."

Harry dug quickly in his pocket, moving to stand next to Sirius. "All we've got is this," he said, holding out the Visitor's pass Tom had given him. The Ianorum looked confused.

"We can't accept this," one of them said.

"Oh, and then there's this," came Tom's voice, and one of the Ianorum found himself at the business end of Tom's dagger. Sirius, not to be outdone, cold-cocked the other one, knocking him to the ground. The first let his spear fall and edged aside, eyeing Tom nervously.

"This just gets more fun," Tom said cheerily, siding the dagger to one side as his elbow caught the remaining soldier full in the face.

***

"So how do I look?" Harry asked, adjusting the last strap on his new breastplate. Tom, who was kneeling to put boots on Draco's feet, grinned.

"It might throw them off for a few minutes, if they're looking for the sable boy," he replied.

"They?" Draco asked.

"It speaks!" Tom exclaimed. Draco pulled his cloak on over the military uniform, uninterested in Tom's mockery. The cat leapt into the hood of the cloak, peering out with narrow, slitted eyes.

"Let the lad alone," Sirius said.

"He did try to steal my knife, you know," Tom reproached.

"But he has a point," Harry said. Sirius looked at him. "I can't believe I just said that."

"Me either," Sirius replied.

"Thing is...who are the They that might be looking for us?"

Tom looked utterly nonchalant. "Anyone Hades chooses to send after us. From here, anyone wanting to come for us has got to get down the cliff and walk along the road just like we do. And if they're looking for the sable boy and they see a Roman soldier, they might pass us by. For a little while."

Sirius walked to the edge of the cliff and looked down.

"Is there any way to get down it really, really fast?" he asked.

"Well, you could jump," Tom said.

"Would that work?"

"Not if you wanted to still be nominally alive at the end."

"What about your wings?" asked Harry. Tom stretched them, and they seemed more visible than usual; one of them was still stiff, but they didn't look quite as ragged as they had earlier.

"They don't work," he said sadly. "Never have. See?"

The wings flapped, wildly. He barely moved at all.

"Allegorical," he sighed. "And you can't use magic, it doesn't work here. Not for you, anyhow."

Sirius looked gloomy. "Figures. All right then. Harry, can you climb on your own?"

"I think so," Harry replied, checking the buckles on his uniform. Sirius turned to Draco.

"But you can't, can you?" he asked quietly.

"I could if I had to," Draco muttered.

"You're barely keeping upright," Tom pointed out. "For someone who's spent his whole life lying, you do an awfully bad job of it."

"Tom's going first," Sirius said, decisively. "He knows the way, and he might be able to stop us if we fall. I'll go next. I can carry Malfoy. We're big enough that Harry might have a chance, if he falls. Whatever happens, you cling on, Harry," he added.

"What if you fall?" Harry said quietly.

"I won't fall," Sirius replied.

"Look at it this way." Tom adjusted the makeshift straps on his glove, and grinned. "If you fall, you're already in the underworld. It'll save the trip, anyhow."

Harry and Sirius both looked at him.

"What? It's true," Tom laughed, and dropped one-handed over the edge, vanishing from view.

Sirius allowed Draco to wrap his arms around his shoulders, the blond boy's cowled head pressed against the back of his neck. He gave Harry a significant look before carefully crawling over the edge.

"This is not the heroic rescue I had in mind," Harry sighed, following Sirius as he began to find his first footholds in the cliff.

It wasn't difficult climbing, but it was precarious; Tom, using his wings for balance if not for lift, was moving speedily down the rocky face, already well below Sirius and Draco. Harry, who could just barely detect Sirius out of the edge of his vision when he looked for footholds, thought that he could see the muscles knotting along Sirius' arms as the man climbed under the combined weight of himself and Malfoy, who was thin but not exactly small.

Harry, paying attention to Sirius, didn't notice when his fingers caught on a loose rock, and before he knew what had happened, the dirt had crumbled beneath his fingers, and he'd slipped away from the grips, and was falling --

There was a sudden jerk, and it felt as though his neck had snapped; he was dangling, in midair, listening to Sirius' heavy, even breathing.

Fingers brushed his neck, and he realised he was being held from falling by one hand, hooked in the collar of his shirt and a strap of his armour. He looked up along the arm until he saw Draco's face, turned to regard him. There was no pride or shame in the boy's face, no vindication or guilt. There wasn't anything. Not even mild interest.

Harry groped, slowly, for a handgrip; his left hand touched the rock, his right clinging to Sirius' shoulder.

"It wouldn't be a proper rescue if someone didn't slip at least once," Sirius rasped. "I can't carry both of you, Harry..."

Harry, now clinging to the rock again, saw that Sirius' fingers were bloody.

"Can you keep on?" Sirius asked.

"I think so," Harry said shakily, still staring at the bloody, lacerated fingers. "Can you?"

"Haven't a choice," Sirius grunted, beginning to climb again.

By the time they reached the bottom, Tom was sitting with his back to the rock, digging idly in the dirt with his dagger. Sirius dropped next to him, coughing with exhaustion, and Draco simply fell to the ground. Harry, glad to have his feet on solid ground again, bent over and let himself really and truly breathe for the first time since he'd fallen.

"Long road to Valhalla from here?" Harry asked, accepting a few strips of fabric torn from Tom's shirt, and tying them inexpertly around Sirius' bleeding hands. Sirius barely seemed to notice.

"Sounds like a song," Sirius murmured.

"A little ways, once we're on the main road," Tom answered. "We could stop to rest properly there, I think. How's the silver boy?"

Harry glanced at Draco, whose face was screwed up in misery under his cloak. The cat was rubbing its cheek against the back of his neck, and he reached back to scratch it absently.

"I think Dis has a hold on him," Sirius said. "I hope it ends when we get back to the surface."

"We should push on," Tom said. "Sooner or later Hades is going to find the soldiers."

"Won't take long," Sirius agreed. "Best get as far away as possible."

"Hades is a screamer. When he finds out, you'll know."

"Somehow, Tom, that's not very comforting," Sirius sighed. "Ta, Harry," he said, flexing his hands experimentally.

"Up in Nir we wouldn't be tired, would we?" Harry asked.

"This is the road to Valhalla," Tom replied. "Things are much more real, here. The people are more conscious."

They all looked up as an explosive crash sounded, far in the distance.

"Doesn't mean they're nice, of course," Tom added. Sirius dusted himself off and pulled Draco to his feet.

"Tom's right. Let's get away from here," he rumbled. Draco found into step behind him, with Harry. Tom kept a little ahead, leading the way.

"Thanks, by the way," Harry said, as they walked. Draco didn't reply. "For catching me, I mean." Silence. "That was the first halfway decent thing I've ever seen you do." He waited. "It's polite to say 'you're welcome', you know."

"It was instinct," Draco snapped, his voice hoarse. He coughed. "Don't push your luck."

He stumbled, then, and Harry put out a hand to catch him, only to find the other boy shrugging out of his grip, angrily.

"Don't touch me," Draco snarled. "Let me alone!"

Harry saw something feral in his eyes, something not quite human. Tom and Sirius had stopped, and turned to watch.

"All right, Harry?" he asked. "Malfoy?"

Harry eyed Draco warily. "We're fine," he said. "I think."

***

 _The moon? It is a griffin egg,_  
 _Hatching tomorrow night._  
 _And how the little boys will watch_  
 _With shouting and delight._  
Vachel Lindsay

"There's something very wrong with the Lower Way," Tom said, when they'd resumed walking. He turned his head slightly, to see Sirius examining the makeshift bandages on his hands. "I think it must be the Arch the mortal men built."

"Its very existence upsets the balance between the living and the dead," Sirius said with a nod.

"And three living souls in Hades upsets it even more." Tom scratched his cheek, then chewed on the edge of his glove, thoughtfully. "I wonder, when I go Aboveway, if I'll upset the balance too. But I guess I never really lived. Probably I won't."

"What will you do when we reach the Aboveway?"

"Find the Arch. Destroy it. Maybe find my other half. Sometimes..." Tom folded his wings tight against his body, a nervous habit when he was upset, "Sometimes I yearn for...that evil. I want to do desperate, hateful things. It's the feeling of missing my other half."

"All of Voldemort's goodness, in you," Sirius said, surprising him.

"And all the memories of his childhood. Of the orphanage," Tom said, nodding. "We're almost on the main road."

"There's no path -- how do you know?"

"Oh..." Tom said, with a grin. "You'll know when we reach it."

He pointed to a slightly raised ridge not too far away, and heard Sirius draw his breath. Atop the ridge there was a long, broad road, filled with muddy, indistinct figures, mostly grey, but also glowing somehow.

"There must be hundreds of thousands of them," Sirius breathed, when they were close enough to see clearly. "Where are they going?"

Tom kept walking, until he was standing on the edge of the road. He let his hand drift out, and it passed right through one of the souls, leaving little smoky wisps behind it.

"They've been judged by Anubis. They were found worthy of a choice -- Nir or Valhalla. They chose Valhalla."

He turned to Harry and Draco, who were both wide-eyed and wary. "Sometimes, those going to...to bad places...can choose Valhalla over Cocytus."

"What happens to them?" Harry whispered. Tom tried to look nonchalant.

"They, they become servants," he replied. "Best walk on, then. They won't hurt you."

He stepped into the greyish, moving mass as though he were wading into a stream. He saw the others shiver with cold when they joined him.

"How long is the road?" Harry asked.

"A ways," Tom replied indistinctly.

"What kind of a measurement is that?"

"This is the afterlife, Harry, we're a bit short on the metric system here," Tom said irritably. "If you really want to know, look."

He turned in the direction the grey ones were going, and began to walk towards a large, fortified barricade in the distance, alight with red and yellow. He felt Sirius and Harry fall into step on his left, Draco on his right.

Valhalla wasn't far, not on this main road, but it was so tiring to walk amongst the souls of the dead -- they were cold, and they clung, so that they walked much slower than they otherwise might have. It seemed to take forever for them to reach the gates, and when they did, Tom herded them slowly away from the giant doors, into the wild unmown weeds beyond the tree-lined entry.

The feasting-hall was huge, a sort of fortified monstrosity of wood and steel, somehow forbidding but warm at the same time. There were battlements, twenty feet up the rough-hewn log walls, but nobody manned them; there were small servant-doors outside the main gate, and it was next to these that Draco slumped against the wall, closing his eyes and letting his body slide to the ground. Harry and Sirius crouched near him, and after a moment to take in his surroundings, Tom joined them.

"My bones hurt," Harry said, toppling from his crouch to lie spread-eagled in the weeds.

"It's the souls. It's hard going when they pass through you, eh?" Tom replied, shredding a dandelion leaf idly.

"Have you been down here often?" Sirius asked. Tom worried his lip with his teeth, thinking.

"A few times. It's nice to spend an evening with people who aren't experiencing eternal bliss, you know. But I've never been past it. We should try to rest before we keep on."

"But Hades -- " Harry said weakly.

"We'd know, I tell you," Tom soothed. "We're safe for now. If Hades does get wind, there's a good long run between him and us."

All three men jumped as the servant-door opened and a woman peered out. When she saw them, she stepped into the weeds and closed the door behind her. She wore a long white skirt, and a red bodice over tight-wristed white sleeves. Her glossy, dark-brown hair was done up in a bun, covered by a small white cap. She looked shy, but friendly.

"Was ist hier los?" she asked. Tom smiled at Sirius and Harry's confused looks.

"Bist Du die Bedienung?" he replied. She didn't look like a servant, but she didn't look like she belonged to the feasting, either. The woman laughed, heartily.

"Bedienung! Ich koche hier, vielen Dank auch," she said, amused.

"What're you saying?" Sirius asked.

"I asked if she was a servant. She said she was a cook."

Just then another woman emerged, smiling more warmly; she wore a dress similar to the first's, but in different colours, green and brown. "Guten tag, Tom Riddle!" she cried.

"Auch dir einen guten Tag, Köchin," Tom replied amiably. "This is Mi," he said, to the others. "She's a friend of mine."

"Das ist Yap," Mi added helpfully, indicating the other woman. "Benötigt ihr etwas zu Essen?"

Harry and Sirius looked on inquiringly. "What are they saying?" Harry asked Sirius.

"You think I know?" the older man replied.

"Ja, Essen wäre schön," Tom said evenly. Mi and Yap vanished back through the doorway, while Tom turned beaming to his companions. "They're fetching food for us," he explained. "Our good luck, really. They're cooks for the revelers. That means they're not here for punishment. They're the souls of gourmets who chose to spend all their eternity cooking." He saw Harry's disbelieving look, and grinned. "Most cooks end up at Valhalla, either in the kitchen or the feasting hall."

"Well, that's fine, I'm famished," Harry said finally.

"Most people this close to Valhalla are. You can eat and eat, you know. Nobody's ever too full." He glanced at Draco, who was sleeping, and pulled a little closer into the huddle that now consisted of him, a cross-legged Sirius, and Harry propped on one elbow. "Now it's time to tell stories, I think. I don't think you'll enjoy them, though," he added, with a sigh.

***

Sirius watched as Tom made himself comfortable. He wasn't too happy to be stopping here, but it gave him a chance to re-bandage his hands, and they all needed a rest -- he doubted Harry had been still for more than ten minutes together, since arriving at the gates of Hades.

"We know how you came to be here, Harry," Tom said. "How much time has passed in the Aboveway since Sirius left it?"

"A little over a year," Harry murmured. "You..." he glanced at Sirius. "You...left at the end of fifth year. It's almost seventh year now."

Sirius, for the first time, felt the cold comprehension of what had happened; the magnitude of Harry's quest, the fact that in the Aboveway he was dead and long since laid to rest. And he had missed yet one more year of Harry growing up.

"How..." he began, than shook his head. "Have you been all right?"

Harry nodded. "I get by."

"And the Order? How are your friends?"

"We're fine. All of us are all right, I guess. For now."

Harry met his eyes then, and saw the unasked questions in them. "Lupin's all right," he said, helpfully. "He almost came with me."

Sirius, whose throat felt as though it were closing up, managed a cough. "But he didn't," he murmured.

"He thought he couldn't," Harry said quickly. "Me, I read about some myths...people who went to hell and came back. Orpheus did it. And I thought, if they could do it, I could do it. So I did. And here I am."

He got no further than that; Yap and Mi had emerged from the door again, carrying two enormous baskets and a flat wooden box.

"Esst und trinkt," said Yap, with a smile. "Alles Gute kommt vom Essen."

"Wir haben euch auch ein Spiel mitgebracht," Mi added. Harry and Sirius looked expectantly at Tom as Mi gave him the wooden box, smiling. Tom shook it.

"They say there's food for us in the baskets," he translated. "And they brought us a board game to play."

Harry was already spreading one of the cloths covering the blankets, and Sirius snapped the other one open; there were candles to light, so that they could see to eat, and soon the food was strewn across the cloths, as Harry and Sirius ate ravenously and Tom poured cups of milk for them.

"How about you?" Harry asked, around a mouthful of food. "What happened in Dis?"

Tom shrugged. "Draco tried to steal my dagger. So I beat him. Not too hard, don't worry, just hard enough to get my pride back. We were scuffling, and then..." he shook his head, the still-slightly-bent wing fluttering gently. "All hell broke loose. Someone grabbed me. I did the best I could, but I had to look after that one, too."

He took out his knife, stuck it in the ground. "I had to cut some people. That never ends well. They're probably serving here now," he added. "Or in Cocytus. And then we came to you, and the rest you know."

He turned to Sirius, who was drinking the milk with hungry relish. "It's your turn, you know."

Sirius, slowly, put down his cup, and nodded.

"I fell," he said simply. "I died. Only I didn't die. And that's all."

***

"Your move."

"This is the stupidest game ever."

"If you think this is dumb, you should try Cribbage."

Harry glanced up at Tom and grinned over the edge of the backgammon board. Sirius stood nearby, watching the figures pass on the road.

"I mean, for pure lack of entertainment value, you can't beat Cribbage," Tom continued.

"Two, three, four, and...I win," Harry said, triumphantly. Tom glanced down, surprised.

"What?"

"That's the way, Harry," Sirius called. "Now close it up. I think we should be going."

Harry began to put the gamepieces away, while Tom leaned over to shake Draco awake. "Time to be moving on with things, silver boy," he said gently. Harry tossed Draco an apple as he sat up.

"You should eat," Harry said. Draco stuffed the apple into a pocket in his cloak. Harry and Tom shrugged at each other and left the basket and cloth, the nearly-burnt-out candles and the playing board, near the doorway. They passed across the road, shivering as they walked through the souls.

"I've never been past the feast hall, before," Tom said, as they followed a small dirt path circling around the outside of the hall. "Most of what I know from now on is rumour -- nobody really comes back from Cocytus except Hades. It was supposed to be the ninth level of hell, wasn't it?"

"That's what they say," Harry replied, shooting a sidelong glance at Draco.

"Well, it's only the third level, here. Course there _are_ only three levels," Tom mused. He ticked them off on his fingers. "Nir Dis for the Unconscious; Valhalla for the Conscious; and Cocytus for the Unforgivables. Cocytus is the only one where everyone suffers. Properly it's Hell, and not even a part of Hades at all."

"Please stop now," Sirius said.

"I guess Dante got a little overzealous," Harry observed.

"Had to meet his publisher's minimum word-count," Tom said with a laugh.

" 'The Third and Final Circle of Hell' really doesn't sound that impressive," Sirius mused.

"Harry, when we reach the marshlands," Tom said, one hand trailing along Valhalla's wall, "You've got to go first. It's like the stories. If you look back, you'll lose them."

"Them?" Harry asked. "What about you?"

"Well, best not to risk it, don't you think?" Tom replied lightly. They left the walls of Valhalla behind, climbing a low hill towards a dark, empty cavernous space beyond. Tom held up a hand, stopping them as they reached the top; it sloped, low and gentle, slowly going from green to brown, and then to the dead, sterile frostbitten soil of a wasteland. Beyond that, there were sheets of greenish-black ice, out of which rotting trees occasionally grew.

"This is cheerful," Sirius sighed. Draco, standing next to Sirius, drew a breath.

"In Dante, Satan lives in Cocytus, buried up to his breastbone in ice. He has three faces, and he chews the heads of three traitors," he said. He pointed to a silhouette in the distance. The other three stared at him.

"He had the pop-up book," Harry explained. Draco continued, listlessly.

"Dante and Virgil climbed down his side to escape. He was too distraught to notice them," he droned. "The three traitors were Judas, Brutus, and Cassius. I don't know who Judas is."

Tom nodded. "Christian mythology doesn't figure very high in the Wizarding world. Or didn't, when I was Aboveway."

"He'll want me to stay in Cocytus," Draco whispered. Harry drew his eyebrows together.

"Well...you're not a traitor, really," he said. "I mean, you've always been very honest about being the spawn of evil."

Draco gave him a slight smile. "You've no idea what you're talking about. We should go."

Harry nodded and stepped forward --

And the world was illuminated, and the ground began to shake. There was a roar of rage.

"Oh," Tom said, surprised. "Dear. I think that's Hades."

Sirius turned to look over his shoulder. "I thought you said Hades would have to chase us!" he shouted, over the rumbling. "You said we'd know when he found we were gone!"

A look of abstract worry crossed Tom's face.

"He may have...waited to start shouting until he was close," he said guiltily.

"If we survive this, I'm going to yell at you a lot," Sirius growled.

"You can yell at me even if we don't," Tom grinned. Behind them, the silhouette of Hades reared up, towering and red in the unnatural illumination.

"Harry, I'd go now if I were you," Tom said. "I'd run. And don't look back!" he cried, as Harry took off towards the shape of Satan, as frightening as huge as Hades behind them.

"Mustn't look back," Harry breathed, as he ran. "Mustn't look back. They're running right behind me. Even if they fall behind..."

_If they're not fast enough, I might lose them._

_But if I look back, I really will._

***

Sirius, as soon as Harry had begun to run, bowed his body enough for Draco to climb onto his back, arms around his neck and legs hooked over his arms. At a nod from Tom he took off after Harry, pelting over the frozen ground, almost falling under their own momentum when they hit the ice.

Sirius, chest heaving, leapt over a low, rotting black branch, but Tom, almost frantic with fear now, didn't see it; he stumbled and slid across the ice, moaning in pain. He fetched up against a tree trunk, with a wet thud, and found himself staring backwards, at Hades, who was fast on their heels.

"SIRIUS!" Tom screamed.


	5. Chapter 5

_And those that scorned their brothers here_  
 _And sowed a wind of shame_  
 _Will reap the whirlwind as of old_  
 _And face relentless flame._  
Vachel Lindsay

"No looking back," Harry kept repeating, as he ran. "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit..."

Satan reared up in front of him now, drawing closer with surprising speed. He was a giant of a creature, frozen up to his armpits in ice; his body was covered with shaggy, dead grey hair, and his fingers ended in tapered claws, like Hades, only a thousand times more vicious. Harry saw, with the clarity of absolute terror, small barbs covering them, stabbing the bleeding, writhing bodies he held in his hands, which had long since ceased to even resemble humans.

He had only one head, but three faces, and his mouths were fixed on the creatures in his grasp.

"Oh," Harry said, skidding across the ice, trying to avoid slamming into the body of the Prince of Darkness himself. "Shit..."

He stared up in awe at the giant chest, pocked with holes larger than Harry was. That there were iron bars set into his very skin, across the gaps. He reached out to touch the bars of the nearest one, and a snarling, vicious monster leapt at him from the shadows. He jumped back, and the man -- just barely recognisable as such -- stretched an arm through, trying to grab him.

"Kid, let me out. Let me out, kid. I swear to god it wasn't my fault," the man burbled. "My name's Alberigo. I was a preacher. Let me out, kid, please."

A chorus of howls and wails rose out of the other cells as other wretched souls took up the plea.

"Have mercy!" "Oh Christ!" "Please let me out -- " "I'll do anything!" "Oh God --"

Harry looked at Alberigo's trembling, withered hand, in wonder. He reached out his own, and Alberigo tried to pull him against the bars. He jerked away just in time.

"Tell me the way out and I'll free you," he said, surprised at how calm his own voice sounded. Anything would, compared to the bedlam around them. Alberigo looked sullen.

"Go left," he said. "Under the wing. There's a tunnel. I've seen others go that way -- now let me out!" he shrieked, throwing himself frantically against the bars.

Harry felt a small smile curve his lips, although shame was filling him. "A traitor expects not to be betrayed?" he asked.

Alberigo began to scream at the top of his lungs; Harry, cautiously, stepped into the shadows behind the great shaggy limbs of Satan. He couldn't even turn back to tell Sirius the way --

"YOU SAID YOU'D FREE ME!" Alberigo wailed, one voice among many, as Harry vanished from sight.

***

Sirius, when he heard the scream, saw Tom slide across the ice, and didn't have to double back too far; Tom was righting himself by the time he got there, and Sirius extended a hand, bracing himself, grateful for the rough soles of the Roman boots he wore. He put his hand on Tom's chest to steady the lad.

"Can you run?" he asked.

Tom, looking over his shoulder, turned pale. "I don't think I have a choice," he said. Hades was almost upon them. Sirius nearly pulled him off his feet as they started to run again -- Draco clinging to Sirius' back for dear life, Tom cursing and limping as he ran.

"Real functional wings would come in terrifically handy right about now!" Sirius yelled, over Hades' enraged roars.

"As long as we're wishing, a submachine gun couldn't hurt!" Tom shouted back. "Save your breath for running!"

It seemed like an eternity before they reached Satan, and as the demon's form began to show clearly, Tom moaned under his breath.

"I think this is where I say something smart about the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea," he shouted. Sirius, however, was already leading them aside. He pointed to Harry, just disappearing, and ignored the tormented cries of the souls trapped inside the great shaggy body.

"Follow me!" he shouted, turning, but too late; a shadow descended, and a handful of Satan's claws slammed down around them, forming a small, circular prison, filled with deadly barbs.

One of the creatures dropped from Satan's mouth to the ice and whimpered softly.

"The boy is Mine." Satan's voice was like a rasp across their senses, more pain and hatred than actual sound. Sirius tightened his grip on Draco.

"Fight Hades for him, then," he said defiantly.

The rumbling suddenly stopped. Tom turned slowly and saw Hades, standing not more than a few paces away, on the other side of their prison.

"The boy is Mine," Satan repeated.

"They all three belong to me, and a fourth thou let escape!" Hades shouted.

"This is My domain, not yours," Satan replied calmly.

"I am thy lord!" Hades screamed.

Satan laughed. Sirius clapped his hands to his ears. Draco slid to the ground, standing quite still.

"If Myself had wanted a lord," he crowed, "Myself would have remained an angel."

Tom and Sirius, still recovering from the sound of the laughter, didn't notice Draco reaching into his cloak.

"I think I resent that," Tom said, under his breath. "I'm an angel and you don't see me with a lord."

"Anymore," Sirius murmured.

"Point."

"When I run," Draco said suddenly, "Go where Harry went. Don't argue," he added. "Just do it."

Draco turned to the claw, almost as tall as he was, and leaned forward, sinking his teeth into the furred flesh above it. Satan screamed in rage, and his fingers twitched. It was all the slim blond boy needed to slip through; all the opportunity Sirius and Tom needed, to roll under the raised claw and begin to run on the hard, frost-crusted ice.

"I remember a story," Draco said, standing next to the pocks in the ice where Satan's claws had been. Sirius dodged Satan's attempt to catch him in his claws, and continued on. "I remember this story about a serpent and an apple..."

He saw Sirius and Tom vanish, and took his hand out of his cloak. A small red apple sat in it, shining in the light.

"You want me? Come for me," Draco shouted, and hurled the apple at Satan, roaring in rage. The apple arced up and over, and Draco's aim was true; it flew straight into the screaming mouth, and the noise stopped, suddenly, as the monster choked.

The other two traitors' bodies fell to the ground as Satan put both hands to his throat, barbs tearing his own flesh. Hades stared in horror and Draco began to run, past the strange, misshapen bodies that were beginning to push themselves up, to howl with fury and converge on Hades, effectively blocking the Lord of the Underworld's path.

Draco darted around the way that he'd seen Sirius go, and was suddenly faced with the huge, freezing, flapping wings of a panicked Satan. There were no entrances or exits, just chill wind and darkness.

And then light, the real yellow light of the upper world, spilled out from behind the membrane of his wings, and Draco felt it hit him, and he laughed.

"Yes," he said softly, dodging towards the rough rock gateway. He was almost there --

A wild swing of Satan's wing caught him in the back of the head, knocking him forward into the brightly-lit cave, and he saw stars.

"He defied Satan," he heard Tom say, as he passed out. "I think that's one for the record books."

***

Grey dawn was beginning to rise.

Remus Lupin slept, sitting on the ground, back against a fencepost, knees drawn up against his chest. The carving he'd been working on lay on the fencepost, almost finished; a little figurine of a dog, not deftly done but elegant in its purity of shape. The Smithy entrance was dark, except for the strange blue half-light that is cast just before sunrise.

Remus lifted his head, sleepily, as something woke him; a change in the light, from blue to an odd sea-green --

The Smithy was moving.

His eyes widened and he stood, stumbling a little, moving forward to catch a figure coming out. Harry fell into his arms, a wide bleeding cut across his face, the cheekbone purple and ugly.

"Harry?" Remus asked, cupping his chin. He dragged him away from the entrance, helped him to stand fully. "Are you all right? You've been hurt -- "

"It's nothing, I'm fine," Harry said quickly, coughing up dust and phlegm. "I'm all right."

"What happened?"

Harry drew a hand across his face, smearing the blood. "We had to run," he said, coughing again. "I don't know if they made it or not. I can't look, I'm not allowed." Another fit of coughing. "You look."

Remus did look, then, at the green-lit mouth of the entrance to the Smithy. Another figure emerged -- a silhouette, too slim and delicate to be Sirius, carrying a boy in unfamiliar clothing, who could only be Draco, even under a mass of strange marks on his face. His blond hair glinted, even in the dim light.

The man -- it was a man, in a ragged green shirt, dusty trousers, and of all things, a Quidditch glove -- lifted one arm and put a finger to his lips in an exaggerated gesture for silence. He moved forward, laying Draco on the ground, and another man emerged.

Remus caught his breath as the green glow faded.

"You can turn now, Harry," said the strange boy. "Who's your friend?"

Remus was still staring, stricken, at the final figure that had come from the Smithy.

"I'm Tom," the boy added, holding out a hand to Remus. "This is Harry and that's Draco," he said, as though speaking to an idiot. "And that's -- "

"Sirius," Remus breathed. Harry turned, finally, and the pair of them stood there, both staring. "Oh, Sirius," Remus repeated.

Sirius stood next to the unconscious Draco, a cat in his arms; he was still wearing the Roman armor, and he looked vaguely alien in the green, tree-grown landscape.

"Well done, Harry," he said. "Hallo, Moony." He held up the scrawny animal. "Draco nearly left his cat behind."

Remus was still staring in silence, too stunned to speak.

"You know," Tom said, breaking the tension, "It's been a while since I was here last, but I'm nearly certain we ought to do something for the silver boy. Nasty blow he took."

Remus, swallowing, dropped to his knees next to Draco and reached out to take his pulse, Sirius crouching nearby. He lifted his eyelids, held his mouth open, listened to his heart.

"I think he'll be all right," he said. "He's badly bruised, though. We should take him to St. Mungo's." Remus lifted him, standing, and one hand held Draco's head against his shoulder. Sirius faced him, still carrying the cat.

"Don't disappear," Remus said softly. "I might think it was just a dream."

"If you go, I'll know it is," Sirius answered. Remus shook his head.

"I have to take Draco."

"Then I'll go with you." Sirius glanced at Harry, who smiled tiredly and shook his head. With a curt nod, Sirius turned back to the brown-haired man. Tom and Harry watched as they Disapparated, both at once.

Wind blew through the trees gently, and the first true gold light began to dawn in the sky. Harry's fingers drifted over a bit of carved wood that someone had left on the fencepost.

"Well, that was fun, wasn't it?" Tom said brightly. "Bit of a jaunt, eh?"

"Don't make me hurt you, Tom," Harry replied.

"And you're very welcome for helping save your friend."

"He's not my friend."

"No, but you're his."

Harry scowled as Tom led the way out of the clearing, onto the winding dirt road that would lead them towards the highway.

"Guess we walk, eh?" Tom asked. "Never hurt anyone. Say, it's cold out, isn't it?"

"See you've still got your wings," Harry replied. Tom stretched them, then folded them slowly against his back. The skewed wing seemed to have healed; perhaps some injuries healed quickly in the Aboveway, Harry thought, wiping blood from his cheek.

"Reckon that brown-haired fellow knows what he's doing?" Tom asked, as they walked through the poppies.

"As much as anyone does," Harry answered.

"What do you suppose I ought to do, now that I'm back amongst the living?"

"Anything you want, I should think."

"What do you think your man Black is going to do? My apologies, by the way. I underrated the man. Vastly."

"Dunno. Wait for us at the hospital, I suppose."

They walked in silence until they reached the dusty parking lot and the exit off the paved roads. Tom peering at a passing lorry on the highway with interest.

"How are we going to get where we're going?" he asked, stretching again. Harry shrugged, watching the wings snap out lazily.

"Knight Bus, I suppose," he replied. "I can't exactly walk around Muggles wearing Roman armor."

Tom nodded, and snapped his wings down as he finished his stretch; a second later he landed by the roadside, hard, skidding backwards. Harry stared at him.

"Do that again," he cried.

"What, fall down?" Tom asked, struggling up.

"Flap your wings again!"

Tom, hesitantly, let his wings stretch, and stroked them through the air. He shot off the ground, laughing, and managed -- after a few jerky strokes -- to hover a little above Harry.

"Brilliant!" he shouted. "I love the Aboveway!"

He took off, twisting and turning through the air, while Harry watched in amazement. Finally, kicking up prodigious clouds of dust, he landed and stumbled into Harry, laughing.

"Hold still," he commanded, and Harry obeyed while the other boy ran his hands under his arms and around his chest.

"If you tell me to drop trou, I'm going to cold-cock you," Harry threatened. Tom grinned, and Harry felt a sensation of movement, of heaviness. They shot off the ground, Harry tensing, Tom glorying in the speed with which they climbed.

"Where are we going?" Harry demanded.

"St. Mungo's, of course!" Tom laughed. "Faster than trains or buses! What have you got in your pockets, bricks? We'll never get there in time to see your friend if you don't stop struggling," he added.

"He's not my friend," Harry protested, falling limp.

"Whatever you say, Potter," Tom answered, and after a few minutes of experimentation, he settled into the long, steady glide of a cross-country flier, the wind chilly and brisk on his face.

***

 _"Build me a dome," said Aladdin,_  
 _"That shall cause all young lovers to sigh,_  
 _The fullness of life and of beauty,_  
 _Peace beyond peace to the eye."_  
Vachel Lindsay

In St. Mungo's, Draco lay asleep in a plain white bed, head propped on pillows. Nearby, on a hospital bench, Remus sat, one leg drawn up against his chest, cheek resting on his knee, breathing deep and even. Curled up next to him, paws resting on his tail, Sirius also slept, sharing the bench space with Draco's stray.

"Excuse me, sir?"

Remus opened his eyes, lifted his head stiffly, and stared at the Healer's apprentice, blinking.

"Are you the boy's father, sir?" the young woman asked. Remus smiled slightly.

"I'm a family friend," he replied.

"You're not supposed to bring pets in here," the woman continued. Remus nodded.

"I know, but they're all the family the boy has here, and I thought..." he gave her the most charming smile he could -- something he'd learned, he recalled, from Sirius. She smiled back.

"Well, I won't tell," she confided. "The Healers think he'll be all right. His physical injuries are already taken care of."

"But...?" Remus prompted.

"They're not really sure why he won't wake up," she admitted. "Did he take a sleeping potion? Was he enchanted at all?"

Remus glanced at the sleeping Sirius, then back to Draco.

"I don't know what happened to him," he answered. "You might want to owl his moth -- "

"No need," said another female voice from the doorway. Narcissa Malfoy stood there, framed dramatically -- no doubt planned that way, Remus thought, a trifle bitterly. If nothing else, the woman knew how to make an entrance.

"The hospital sent an owl when he was brought in," she said smoothly. "You can go," she added to the Apprentice, who opened her mouth, thought better of it, and hurried away.

"Stop pretending you're asleep, Sirius Black," Narcissa snapped, and Sirius opened one doggy eye, warily. "I was told you were dead. As usual, a pack of lies."

"No, Narcissa," Remus corrected. "He really did -- "

"I wasn't talking to you," Narcissa snapped. "Werewolf filth."

Remus caught Sirius by the scruff of the neck just before his jaws fastened on Narcissa's leg.

"Down, Sirius," Remus commanded.

"Haven't gotten him killed yet, eh?" she asked, turning to the bed. "Not like you, Sirius, to leave your friends alive."

Remus struggled to restrain the dog, muttering invective under his breath. Narcissa, seemingly unaware, touched Draco's cheek. Having finally subdued his friend, Remus looked up, and saw just a hint of the Dark Mark on Narcissa's arm.

"Doubtless, he failed in his assignment," she murmured. "Well. There are others."

Remus watched, stunned, as she turned and left, quickly and without a single word more. Sirius whined, and Remus released him.

"You can't going around ripping out the throats of relatives, Sirius, it's impolite," Remus scolded. Sirius sat on his haunches and yawned, changing back to human form almost idly.

"I'm going to find us something proper to get a bit of shut-eye on," he said, ducking out the doorway. After a moment, Remus shook his head and turned back to Draco, sighing.

"So," he said softly. "What's it going to take to wake you up, Draco?"

There was a long moment of silence, and then a knock on the door. When he turned to look, he saw Harry and the boy named Tom tumble into the room, looking windblown and gritty but immensely self-satisfied. Remus was tempted to ask them how they'd gotten to the hospital.

"How is he?" Tom asked, coming to stand at the bed. "Been fixed up, has he?"

"As much as they can," Remus sighed. "How'd he get those scars?"

"Magic."

"Yes, I'd gathered that," Remus said dryly."If I can ask, by the way, who the hell are you?"

Tom grinned. "I came from the Lower Way. I helped Harry and the others get out, and decided I wanted to see the world. I'm an angel," he added, and Remus watched in horrified fascination as two large bat-wings extended from his back. Tom glanced at Harry and shook his head slightly, and Remus wondered what he was warning the boy against.

"Tom helped us find a way back. We wouldn't even have known we had to escape, if he hadn't been there," Harry said.

"Then I'm indebted to you, Tom," Remus murmured.

"Wasn't anything. If Draco hadn't been there we'd have been dead just the same," Tom said lightly.

Remus turned to Harry, and rubbed his eyes with one hand. "You brought Sirius back," he said quietly.

"Yes -- where is he?"

"Finding something to sleep on, he said he'd be back soon. Harry..." he looked at him, and almost broke, there, on the spot.

Harry was watching him, a mixture of pride and shy hope on his face. The boy wanted to be praised for doing well, wanted to be approved of for bringing Sirius back, not because he was Harry's Godfather -- not because Harry had mourned for Sirius Black -- but because Remus had as well.

Harry had thought of it because he wanted his Godfather back, but he'd gone out and done it because Remus had lost Sirius too.

"You could have brought your parents back," Remus said softly.

"No," Harry replied, equally as quietly, and his face filled with a sort of shame. "I knew I couldn't bring them. And Sirius told me so," he added. "But I never went there to bring them back...it was Sirius. It was always Sirius."

"Thank you," Remus managed. Harry gave him a small smile. "You did more than most mortal men achieve in a lifetime."

Tom tousled Harry's hair, breaking the tension between the two. "Orpheus and Christ, my friends, and Harry Potter. Well done, Harry."

"Indeed," Remus agreed quickly. "Well done, Harry."

He realised he was slightly incoherent, but then Sirius arrived, carrying a folding cot, and all four of them were distracted with how to get it through the door and set it up. When they finally had, Draco's mangy cat leapt onto it, curling up in the centre.

"Typical," Sirius sighed, and lifted the cat off the cot, onto Draco's bed.

"If I can ask..." Remus said thoughtfully. "Why did you kidnap a cat from the afterlife?"

"Draco brought it," Harry said. "It's his cat."

Tom shook his head, and smiled. "Harry, you don't learn."

"What?"

"It's not a cat. Literal is symbolic and symbolic is literal, remember?"

"So?"

Tom pointed to the cat, kneading the blankets with its claws. "It's his conscience."

Harry blinked. He looked at the cat, who regarded him with calm amber eyes.

"This is entirely too strange for me," Remus sighed, dropping onto the bench. He rubbed his cheeks.

"Bit strange for all of us," Sirius added. "Harry, you'd best get some sleep."

"I'm not -- "

"You haven't slept," Sirius said. "Did you resurrect your Godfather only to be disobedient to him, Harry?"

Harry laughed, a sound Remus felt he hadn't heard in too long -- real laughter, without the bitter edge it normally had. The boy let them help him out of the armor he wore and removed the boots, sitting on the edge of the small bed.

"You won't go anywhere?" he asked plaintively.

"We'll wake you if Draco comes round," Remus promised. "Tom, if you'd like to sleep..."

"I think I should," Tom replied, "though I'm not terribly tired. I don't normally sleep you know, but perhaps in the Aboveway..." his words were interrupted with a yawn, and he laughed. "I think that was my answer," he grinned. "Harry, budge over," he said, nudging Harry in the small of his back. "And no cuddling," he added, curling up in one half of the small cot, his back to Harry's.

"You wish," Harry mumbled sleepily.

Remus, satisfied that nobody was going to kill anyone for the time being, or die of exhaustion, leaned back, pressing his head against the wall. Sirius sat beside him, hunching over, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his clasped hands.

"You've new scars," Remus said.

"Deep magic," Sirius grunted.

"Are you all right?"

Sirius turned to regard him. "Are you?"

"I don't know what happened. I'd very much like to. I'm frightened this is going to be another dream. And I don't know why Draco won't wake up," Remus said, his voice so low that even Harry and Tom, only a few feet away, couldn't hear. "Other than that I'm all right, I guess." He paused. "I missed you, Pads. I'm so sorry I wasn't -- "

"You couldn't have known. Stupid grandstanding of me, up on the platform," Sirius said, cutting him off. "Don't let's talk about it."

"All right." Remus let silence settle over them, until Sirius drew a breath.

"Harry said I've been gone over a year," he said sleepily. "I don't even know what day it is."

"July thirty-first," Remus replied, yawning. "Harry's seventeenth birthday."

***

When even Remus' shallow breathing slowed and deepened, Draco risked opening his eyes; he lifted his head, propping himself up on his elbows, and looked closely at the pair of men asleep on the bench. Then he turned to Harry and Tom on the cot, and watched them for a while; satisfied, he pulled his legs up, and slid to the floor cautiously.

The room tilted and spun for a moment, but he swallowed his bile and tried taking a step. When he didn't fall, he took another. Things seemed slightly skewed, as though the proportions weren't quite right, but that was probably the result of the knot of pain in the back of his head, throbbing insistently. He'd been hit, hadn't he? One of the giant freezing wings had knocked him forward.

He was wearing the thin white hospital robes, and he saw the armor and clothing he'd been wearing, piled with Harry's and Sirius' armor.

He'd been awake for some of it. He'd heard Lupin convince the Apprentice to let Sirius and the cat stay; heard Tom and Harry arrive. Tom almost sounded like he admired him -- Draco Malfoy, of all people to admire.

Tom was going to hate him, after this.

He bent carefully over the cot. The dagger in its strange, triangular sheath was laced to Tom's belt. He picked at the laces slowly, pausing every time Tom or Harry shifted in their sleep, and lifted the thing, sheath, laces, and all, away from Tom. Next he found his wand, lying in the jumble of armor, and his clothing; he didn't dare put on the armor itself -- the buckles would snap loudly even if he could do it on his own. He settled for the bound animal-hide trousers and grey-white military tunic. He laced the dagger-sheath to a loop on one side of the trousers, and once out in the hallway, pulled on the boots.

It was still early, and the hospital staff was changing shifts; nobody noticed him as he strolled down the hallway and out into the crisp morning air.

Outside, he pressed his thumb to the Dark Mark on his arm.

"I have it, Lord," he said quietly. Voldemort did not speak to his supporters directly, but Draco felt the familiar tingle of a query in his mind. "No, not here," he said softly. "The Ministry. Yes, in that place. Appropriate, I think."

There was a satisfied spark behind his right ear, and he reeled -- normally the sensation would have been little more than a confirmation of his plans, but he was put off balance and nearly fell. When he managed to stand upright again, he looked down at the Mark. No mortal device could remove it, once placed; it could be faded, but Voldemort's power could bring it back out instantly.

He took out the dagger and pressed it to the skin above the Mark, lightly. The blades didn't look sharp -- if anything, they seemed worn and blunted -- but he could feel it against his skin like a razor.

He pressed down.

***

And in this place...

Death, though no-one has truly died here; despair though the voices through the veil are naught but hope; the end of all things in the promise of another beginning.

Draco let himself into the grand room, amused at how simple it had been to find it -- his mother, still privy to some Ministry secrets though his father was in prison, had told him how he could reach it, should he ever have to. Hide in plain sight was the Ministry's new policy, a stupid one when dealing with eternally curious Death Eaters. There was a touchstone and a portkey he could Apparate to -- his father'd had him Apparating since he was fifteen -- and then it was simply a matter of opening a door.

He redoubled the makeshift bandage around his arm, which was still bleeding; he should have done it in the hospital where he could get proper bandaging, but the torn strip off the bottom of his tunic would have to do. The sleeve of the tunic covered it fairly neatly anyway.

He mounted the stairs to the platform slowly. Half of it was shadowed, and it was to the shadows that he turned.

"I'm here," he said, to the emptiness. Eyes glowed in the dark.

"Well done, Draco," said a soft female voice. Bellatrix, he thought. "Do you know why the Dark Lord asked you to fetch such a thing?"

Draco pulled the dagger from its sheath, holding it in one flat palm as he studied it. The voice was too even to be Bellatrix, far too sane.

"Don't play with me, Lord," he said. The eyes flared. "You're speaking through her."

"Perhaps."

"I saw what it did in the underworld," Draco continued. "It's powerful, isn't it? Sever a man's soul from his body."

"And so much more," said Bellatrix, emerging from the shadows. "Trustworthy and clever. Your father was -- is -- the same. But he is not here, and that means that there is an opening in my Circle where your father once stood."

She stood facing him, eyes occasionally darting to the Arch directly behind him, and he knew that she and the Dark Lord were thinking -- _if he doesn't accept, one shove will complete him._

She stretched out a withered but surprisingly strong-looking hand.

"Take your father's place," she said. Draco felt unsteady. "Then give me the Dagger."

He took her hand, and she smiled.

And then he pulled.

It nearly overbalanced him, but it had the desired effect; as he turned, she stumbled forward towards the veil that hung from the arch. Not far enough, though -- her clawlike fingers scrabbled on stone, and she pushed herself away.

Draco stepped backwards. Fire danced in her eyes.

"Foolish, stupid boy," she growled. "Push me through in her body? Am I not cleverer than a child of seventeen?"

Draco danced away from a lunge she made, pain exploding in his head.

"Now I'm going to leave," said the horrible, sane voice. "And she's going to kill you. Why did you do it?"

"I've seen what's waiting for me if I don't," Draco replied, through the stabbing pain behind his eyes.

Bellatrix grinned.

"That's why I plan to live forever," the Dark Lord said through her, and her face seemed to settle into the insane rictus of a madwoman.

"Cocytus was where I belonged," Draco growled as they circled each other. Bellatrix lunged, and he darted away again. "Because I was planning to betray. To be a traitor to the Death Eaters."

"And now you're going to die," Bellatrix cackled. "Ahaha. Ahahaha..."

She raised her wand, and cried, "AVADA KE -- umnh....?"

Draco had moved forward in the moment her arm was raised. He'd driven the dagger up to the hilt, into her ribcage, with a sickening cracking noise. She gurgled curiously. He drew back his sleeve, makeshift bandage falling away.

"Everyone thought there was going to be a war, you see," he said softly. "But wars are for fools who don't know how to end things quickly. I am not a pawn anymore. For anyone." He twisted, and she shrieked. "Do you hear me, Voldemort?" he asked, to the empty room. "And neither is she. I could say a single word and send her to any hell I pleased, with this..." A twist of the blades. Blue light began to crackle around the handle. "But someone else can judge her. Just like I was."

He pulled the dagger back, and Bellatrix screamed. The electric blue energy danced over her, lighting Draco's face.

"Just this once," he said, as she collapsed, "I'm going to be the hero."

He stabbed the dagger again, this time straight into the stone buttress of the arch, and there was an explosion of light.

***

Harry was waiting for him.

"I felt it," he said, as Draco walked tiredly into the hospital's receiving room. Draco nodded and checked the signs, passing through the hallway towards the ward he was supposed to be sleeping in. He took a roll of Gauze-Aide off of a supply cart, trying to hold it against his chest and open it one-handed. Harry took it out of his hands and flipped up the cardboard top. "Tom did too, but he didn't know what it was. We both woke up in a cold sweat, and your bed was empty. I had a time talking him out of calling the others."

"So you know," Draco said dully, leaning against the wall outside his room. His shirtsleeve was stained with blood now, and he rolled it back, holding out his uninjured hand for the bandages.

"I know," Harry agreed, ignoring the hand and pressing the gauze against the wound. It burned as it began to heal the raw, bloody gash where his Mark should be, and Draco hissed.

"You never would have done it. And it had to be done," he said, over the pain. "I wanted to kill him. But I'll settle for having killed her. The arch is gone too."

"I don't approve of it," Harry said, wrapping the bandage around the blond boy's arm. "Killing a person, I mean. But I'm glad you did it."

"This doesn't mean I like you at all," Draco replied. Harry tied a knot tightly, and Draco let a tremor of pain pass over him. "I only did it because I don't want to go back to Dis. I'm not on your side, Potter."

"Sure, Malfoy," Harry said vaguely, tucking the rest of the bandage back into the box.

"And I still hate you."

"Course you do."

They stood there, not meeting each other's eyes, until Harry jammed his hands into his pockets and leaned against the wall next to Draco, closing his eyes.

"It's not over," Draco said.

"It never is, for us," Harry answered.

"That's going to take some getting used to."

"You'll have to give Tom's dagger back."

"Yes, you will have to do that," said Tom's voice, and they both looked up. He stood there, arms crossed. "Spoil my fun, Malfoy."

"Your fun?"

"Well, someone had to go destroy the arch," Tom sighed. "I wanted to be there to see it burn."

"It didn't burn," Draco mumbled, offering the dagger and sheath to their rightful owner, flushed with shame. "It exploded."

"You could at least have brought me along," Tom sighed, tying the sheath to his belt once more. "Come on, let's get Black and that Lupin character and get out of here."

Harry grinned. "I want to see the look on Dumbledore's face when he sees you, Tom," he said. Tom threw back his head and laughed, a clear boy's laugh, filling the hospital ward.

"There's great days ahead, my lads," he said, with a grin. "Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

***

\-- And that is the story of the Harrowing of Hell, says the old man. The children sit watching him.

He smiles; he has been a Scop for many years, and he can see it in their eyes, that he has done his job well. He sees them lift themselves up out of the story, now that it has ended, and place themselves within the real world once more.

It was not a gift, this telling of stories. It was a skill he earned, with many others, in dark places where fear and courage were sometimes indistinguishable.

\-- But what happened next? one of the smallest children asks. What happened to the sable boy and the silver boy?

\-- That is a story for another time, child, the old man says. That is another story. And see? The sun is setting.

They turn to see the last red rays wash over Diagon Alley, and the spell is fully broken. They go about their way, some rising to run to their parents, others being led away by friends, the older children congregating and conspiring about their plans for the evening.

\-- It was a good story, Scop, says one of the oldest children, and presses a Galleon into his hand. He has no need of their money, but a Scop is only a Scop because he does not tell his stories for free. Otherwise he is simply an old man rambling on.

\-- Thank you, child.

\-- But how do you know it? Is it true?

\-- Every word I speak is true, because I make them so, says the Scop, but in this case the words are true because they are true. Have you not heard of Sirius Black and Angel Tom? Did they not fight alongside the Boy Who Lived?

\-- Yes, they did. The boy furrows his brow. How could you know?

\-- Because I was there.

\-- All Scops say that, the boy scoffs, but respectfully. The old man glances at the boy's bright red hair, and smiles.

\-- You're a Weasley, aren't you?

\-- George Weasley's grandson, says the boy proudly. George Weasley was a boy-warrior as well, and is a wealthy man.

\-- I should like you to carry a message to your great-uncle for me, if you would. The old man pauses, composing it in his head. If you would learn to be a Scop, or understand us, memorise this as your apprenticeship.

The boy nods wide-eyed, and waits.

\-- To Ron Weasley, and to his wife, and to his friends, who are of the Phoenix, the old man says. I am in England again, after many years being without it. Come to hear my stories, if you would, and tell me yours. I salute you as the Storyteller.

\-- Is there no name? the boy asks.

The old man's slate-grey eyes glint in the dying sunlight, and he curls his fingers around the Galleon. The movement makes the muscles of his left arm ripple, and the sleeve shifts slightly; a vivid brown scar stands out on the skin of his forearm. The boy's lips tighten, and he stares in open shock.

\-- There is no name, says the old man. There is merely the Storyteller, and the story.


End file.
